Every Good and Perfect Gift

Ginger at the age of 16, shown with an envelope flap from a letter sent homeThis morning as I was paging through the family photo albums, preparing to tell some mission stories to children at church, I ran across a little snippet from a letter I sent home from school in Singapore when I was sixteen. You can click on the picture to see it large, but in essence, it's an airmail envelope flap with my handwriting:

P.S. I'm out of money and I want to buy you a birthday present, Mama. What do I do? Any B'day wishes?

I cracked up, reading it all these years later. Did I really harbor delusions that I was being subtle way back then?

And then it dawned on me. Anything I try to give to God is really something that he gave me in the first place, too. My service, my time, my offerings, my tithes, my commitment, any kindnesses I might show to others on his behalf ... He has and will supply me with the resources for all of that. Even on the days when I'm as dry as a bone, I can send my wistful little P.S. his way:

P.S. I'm out of everything, Lord, but I'd like to have something to give to You. What do I do? Any wishes?

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17 (NIV)

Thoughts on Approval

We're enculturated in today's world to become approval junkies. It seems like we're not okay unless someone is indicating to us in some way that we're approved of, that we're "good."

I first noticed this when the education world was turning--during my teacher education days--to caring significantly about a child's self-esteem. I think it was to a great degree based on Skinner's work in behaviorism, in which rewards were used to shape the behavior of pigeons...and later, children. Whether or not my professors meant for me to pick up this take-home message, I learned that rewards were a good thing to hand out to well-behaved students, that a token system for classroom behavior was effective and therefore recommended to us beginning teachers, that compliments on student work or performance would encourage more good performance and help students to feel good about "being good."

In some ways this got to be ridiculous: I heard teachers saying to their students, "I like the way you did such-and-such," even if such-and-such was actually a wrong answer or didn't meet the objective of the class. I bought into it for a while myself, as a teacher.

And then one day I felt like I had woken up. I was seeing that people were getting so used to always being patted on the back, whether they were right or not, whether they'd done well or were just being normal humans. Their skins were getting so thin that they couldn't take the demands of having to work for quality. They couldn't take the thought of getting a C grade--which, after all, should mean "average." It dawned on me, that day, that people deserve an honest response. It should be okay for me to say to a student, "No, that's not correct," or "Nice try, but you'd better go back, do your homework and get it right." Let's face it, folks: sometimes you and I are average, or even below average with our work. We ain't perfect, and it might be helpful in the end to admit it.

If you think you're good stuff, if everyone around you has told you so throughout your entire life, then what happens when you hit your first big failure? Do you know how to deal with it or will you crumple? Furthermore, how do you deal with the fact that, just because someone makes a judgment about you, doesn't make it true? A verse in the Bible about being battered every which way by the changing winds comes to mind. Our self-concepts should not be dependent on the messages others give us. And how does a person who believes themselves to be "good" understand that their righteousness is as "filthy rags" and they need salvation?

This, I think, is just a bit of the evil that the outworking of the self-esteem movement has perpetrated on our society.

In the last few years the kids trained in this environment have hit college, and our professors don't know what has hit them. Why are students coming unglued when they get a C+? Why are their parents calling, upset, when their kid fails her first Chemistry test? Why are some people not able to face the fact that perhaps they just got a wake-up call when they got a poor grade on that first quiz, and need to follow the professors' directions for studying in ways that will pay off for real learning?

Somehow, I think we have gotten hijacked from building real inner strength. In our society (at least in north America) we seem to have come to depend on a myth that we are all innately good and deserve to be told so on a regular basis.

I was thinking about these things this morning as I read Galatians 1:10: Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ. It made me squirm. I know how much I'm driven by the approval of others, and how hard I struggle to break free of that. If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ.

If your opinion of me is what drives me (and I use "you" non-specifically, but with a few test cases in mind), then how will I ever build inner strength and stay true to Christ's claims on my life and His leading in my daily decisions? Because you know what? Sometimes you are dead wrong whether you're building me up or tearing me down. And sometimes you're downright ugly in attitude as you make your judgments. And all the time you need a Savior ... just as I do.

Seems to me that we need to be big boys and girls, to seek the truths in life instead of desperately looking around us for the thumbs-up sign.

The Burial of Zeta

Illustrations found on the internetAs I was walking with an alumnus through the hallway of 3rd floor yesterday, Dave the Dean of Theology and Cheryl his secretary emerged from the stairwell. Dave was carrying a jug-shaped vase with little glass beads at the bottom of it, and Cheryl was carrying a hammer.

"Well," I said. "Here they are!" The alumnus and I had been looking for someone in the School of Theology.

"We were at a funeral," said Cheryl. She saw puzzlement on my face as my glance switched back and forth between the vase and the hammer. "Zaida's funeral," she added.

I still didn't get it. "Zaida?" I asked. I know a lot of people in this community, but not Zaida.

"Zaida the Theology beta," she said. "He died over the weekend," she added sadly.

"Ah," I said. "And how do you spell that name?"

"Z-E-T-A," Cheryl said.

Oh. Theology. Greek. Zeta completes the Greek alphabet. I get it.

"Did he have any personality?" I asked skeptically. Seems to me that you need not make a huge deal about the demise of something that has no personality.

"Oh yes," Cheryl said fervently. "Lots. Every day he would greet me, and if I didn't feed him right away, he would fan out his fins and bump his nose against the glass, trying to get me to notice."

Well that's rather endearing.

"I couldn't just flush him down the toilet," she explained. "That would be too sad. And Dave said we could have a funeral, and we couldn't exactly have it in the women's or the men's restroom with both of us in there, so we buried Zeta."

"Where?" I asked.

"By the roses in the prayer garden by the Library," she said. "It's so beautiful there."

"Ah."

"And Dave said some nice words for the funeral."

Dave always has some good words to say. We all count on him in that way.

"Are you going to get another beta?" I asked.

"Not yet. I think I need a little time to mourn this one, first."

Sure.

We discussed pet funerals, and the proposal forming in Cheryl's head that she would like to plan and offer pet funerals as a free community service to heartbroken pet owners. Not a bad idea, I thought. I told her about the lady on Mountain View. I think she could have used Cheryl.

When I got home last night I told Husband the story, hoping that by telling him about it I'd remember the details to blog about it. A funeral for Zeta the Beta, who now resides among roses in the the prayer garden by the library . . . well, that's good blog fodder, is it not?

"Yeah," said Husband. "Too bad about the burial, though. Now Zeta will forever remain a fish out of water."

Jeannie McVeeney and Her Shotgun

Photos found on the internetYesterday we had a little social time in our part of the administration building to celebrate the arrival of two new administrative colleagues. The administrative assistants had provided some delicious goodies to eat, including a bowl of huge blackberries.

"Where did the berries come from?" Ken* asked. "They're delicious."

"Over on Campbell Road ," said Nancy. "There's a lady with a garden there, and you can buy produce from her roadside stand."

"Oh," said Ken. "Is that Jeannie McVeeney?"

"Yes," Nancy said.

I laughed. "That's quite a name," I said.

"Susan got to know her," Ken said, referring to his wife, who has a knack of getting to know everybody in town. "Jeannie McVeeney is quite an interesting woman." He gave a few facts about her story and the demise of her husband, ending with, "and she terrorizes our neighborhood. She's taken to lurking around with a shotgun, picking off the crows."

I don't know why, but I just thought the whole conversation was hilarious.

*all names have been changed

Tears on Mountain View

Picture found on the internetThis morning I hopped on my trusty 2-month old "old lady bike," as I refer to it, to go to Andy's Market for a couple of packages of firm tofu and some peanut butter. Andy's is about a half mile from our house.

Recently Husband and I committed ourselves to cycling if we needed to go anywhere in this little burg where we live and work. So we're only driving the cars if we have to go out of town, have to haul some very bulky load, or maybe when we're going to church. It's saving gas and dollars, and I've been surprised how it's making me feel physically as though I "belong" here a little bit more. I know, I know ... I've lived here seven years now, but third culture kids tend not to put down roots, and I haven't felt safe enough to put mine down after leaving my last home, which I loved.

As I was picking out my route to the market, I decided to take Mountain View Avenue, the street parallel to ours. I don't typically cycle down that road. No special reason, I just haven't done it.

As I was coasting down Mountain View, I saw a lady with her dog on a leash walk out a ways in front of me. She was wearing summer clothes befitting our 100+ degree heat these days, and the wrap-around dark glasses that old people sometimes wear over their regular glasses. A flash of annoyance crossed my mind as I saw that she was paying no attention whatsoever to me. She hadn't even noticed me, and had stopped in the middle of the street with her head down. I was going to have to figure out which way I wanted to maneuver around her.

Then, as I got closer to her I heard a wail of grief rising from her. "Stop!" was the loud word bouncing around between my ears. Braking quickly near her, all I could think of was that this woman was in pain. But I couldn't see why. Was she mentally ill?

"What's the matter?" I asked, concerned.

She turned readily and faced me with her tears. "My cat was killed here," she said. "I'm feeling so awful about that." Then I noticed where she had been looking; there was a dark spot on the road. Oh my.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. When did it die?" I asked.

"Last Thursday night," she said. And it was like the floodgates were open. She told me that she was babysitting this dog for a neighbor. She told me her cat used to sleep at the foot of her aging mother's bed, and that her mother was feeling the loss of the cat. She told me how much she missed her cat. She said again how awful it was. All that in a quick torrent of words. And then she said, realizing that I was a complete stranger who had been on the way to somewhere, "Well, thank you for caring. I really appreciate it."

These are the poignant pictures that stick in my mind for a long time, the little vignettes where I see a complete stranger and enter the story of their life for a few moments, and realize the joys or deep sorrows of what it means to be human, to love and to lose. And sometimes it's so intense, it hurts.

Clips from "The Soul Tells a Story"

While on our recent backpacking trip, I finished reading an excellent book by Vinita Hampton Wright, called The Soul Tells a Story: Engaging Creativity with Spirituality in the Writing Life. For a Christian writer--published or not--who yearns to speak important things well in words, this is a helpful book both in terms of personal enrichment and in terms of approaching the craft of writing.

So for today's post, I'll share some quotes I enjoyed, interspersed with photos of God's floral creativity, as observed by me and relatives on our backpacking trip in the northern Cascades. Enjoy!
"Your willingness to grapple with questions will unnerve people who banned serious questions from their life years ago.... Artists and Old Testament prophets are alike in this; they often see what others can't or won't see, and once they see, they can't keep quiet about it. And people who need the security of the status quo will simply come unhinged in response."

"Creative work will demonstrate to you again and again that the world is bigger and deeper than you perceive, that God has many ways of speaking to your soul, and that the soul itself possesses much wisdom that you simply hadn't noticed before."

"Good life is costly. If you are guided by awareness of and responsiveness to your spiritual calling, you will make sacrifices, and sometimes those sacrifices will involve the creative gifts you love so much. When that happens, all you can do is leave the situation in hands of your Creator, who will hold all of it--the giftedness, the glory, the sacrifices, the losses. Ultimately we must trust these things to God's care and let them go."

"Every time you create something, you are re-creating something that God created, and you are re-creating it in such a way that for certain people it will seem like the very first time they discovered rhythm or kindness or that particular shade of yellow. Our creativity rebirths the world in all of its detail again and again. As artists we name the world and help other people recognize the grace, wisdom and wonder that have been present all along."

"The worst thing about fears is that they slam doors all over the place. They slam doors between you and other people, and they slam doors inside you, in the interior self that has so many lovely places to explore. Creativity might just take you straight to your fears. It might be a helpful exercise to pick a fear and explore it through your art. You never know--your creativity might be a safe place in which you can face your fear."

"When you choose to participate in creativity by trusting the process and allowing the flow to do what it will, you are making a crucial step as a creator and as a person. It's very healthy to accept that you're not in control of most things. You're not in control of other family members, of the weather, of that project at work, of the way a community program plays out. You're not in control, and you were never meant to be. You were meant to be a participant, that's all."

"There are four types of people in the world: those who like you for the right reason, those who like you for the wrong reasons, those who dislike you for the right reasons, and those who dislike you for the wrong reasons. The only people whose opinions should really matter to you are those in the third group: those who dislike you for the right reasons. So you should pay attention to when people find problems in your work. You need to hear the truth that will help the process along, and sometimes that truth will hurt. Sometimes it will come from people who don't have any personal investment in you, but that's not the point. If they speak the truth, then you should pay attention."

"Embrace your personality. Study it, love it, exploit it to the fullest. Find the angles that are specifically yours, and work from them. There are stories only you can tell, because they are intrinsically tied to who you are and who you have been. Keep working on the flaws, the weaknesses, the neuroses. But do it with love. You are just a person, after all, in need of help, in need of a friendly place to live. You are probably already your own worst enemy; it's time to learn how to be your own best friend. No one else can do the job any better."

"Creative people learn to savor whatever befalls them. Sometimes we wallow in wonder, sometimes we wallow in sorrow or confusion. But we learn to notice the finer details, even while those details wound or confuse us. When you approach experience in this way, you do become less of a victim and more of a creator. You gain some power when you choose to partake of any experience more wholeheartedly. You are not merely a person to whom things happen; you are a person who takes hold of whatever happens. That's a huge difference."

"An artist has to become super-sensitive to life in order to notice what others miss and to develop what others may ignore or consider unimportant. The longer you work at your creative gifts, the m ore sensitive you become. Of course this means that you're more sensitive to everything. Not only can you identify multiple textures in that stone wall, but you can identify multiple conflicts in the life of a friend. You notice sadness or anger in the eyes of passing strangers. Increased sensitivity will nourish your art, but it will wear on you at times. You may cry more easily or be more prone to obsess over some horrible event in the news."

"Spiritual growth guarantees imbalance of all sorts. One day you'll have faith, the next you'll feel covered in doubt. One day you will see God, the next day you'll doubt that God exists. This is called pilgrimage. It's also called growth. People who do not experience ups and downs and who do not struggle with life on a regular basis are not balanced; they are more likely stagnant."

"I keep going back to a saying I heard years ago in church: God doesn't call you to be successful, only faithful. I think this is a perfect saying for every creative person to hold dear. You're called simply to do the work. You give your time and energy to the work. You can't worry about the outcome or how much money you'll make. You can't worry about other people's opinions of the work. What's important is your conviction to engage in the work."

Eight Eight Eight

I came into the dining area this morning to find this, complete with the facial expression. I immediately burst into laughter. "What's the occasion?" I asked.

"It's a lucky day," Husband said.

"Well, I guess so!" I responded.

"No, it's the luckiest day of your life," he said.

Having grown up among Chinese people, I didn't have to be told. "Eight-eight-eight," I responded.

"Yep," he said. Turns out that he bought these yellow mugs several years ago at a "going out of business sale" for a local flower shop, and saved them in the bottom of his underwear drawer for a special event. So we sat and drank our Inka (if you don't know what that is, you've missed something!) out of our happy cups.

This may give you a glimpse as to why I was willing to trade in the 20 fabulous things for other fabulous things.

Twenty Fabulous Things About Being Single

Photo found hereThis is for a very dear friend who asked for such a list by way of needing encouragement. You know who you are.

To those who may see this as an indication that I might not enjoy being married, or who may read unintended messages into it, I say unto you: "Turn your beetle eyes elsewhere." This list is a "what you see is what you get list," not a whiny commentary on my marriage or husband.

Being single has benefits; being married has benefits. Whichever you are, you experience benefits that are unavailable if you take on the other status. It will be a long time before I have been married as long as I've been single, so I think I have some qualifications to speak to the topic...at least from my own viewpoint, which ought to be unassailable.

Here we go: Twenty Fabulous Things About Being Single.

1. You have the delicious freedom to go and come whenever you're ready, and not have to wait for anyone, or have them get upset because they're waiting for you.
2. You can go to bed and get up whenever you want, and it never bothers anyone else.
3. You have full control of your own finances, and don't have to negotiate about how the money (if you have some) will be spent, or how your financial dealings will be tracked.
4. You do not have to endure someone talking to you first thing in the morning.
5. You don't have any arguments about the "right" way to do the dishes or the washing, and you never have to submit to the 2nd best--or wrong--approach.
6. You can set the thermostat or the car air conditioning where you want it.
7. It's easier to find a seat when you go to a crowded event.
8. You don't have to worry over what the other person in the house is thinking when they get quiet.
9. You only have the people in one family to juggle, instead of two.
   
10. No one interrupts your worship, reading or internet train of thought or meditation.
11. You get to choose the TV programs, the music, and the volume, and you can channel surf or stay continuous as you please.
12. No one says, "What? You want to travel overseas AGAIN already? It's too expensive and we don't have time."
13. When choosing where you live, you don't have to argue whether the desert or the coast is the winning locale.
14. You can have your clutter. Or you can live without someone else cluttering your home spaces. Whichever way you do it, you don't end up feeling annoyed or pressured.
15. When it comes to the chores, you never have occasion to get mad because you're doing 3/4 while the other person is only doing 1/4. It's always fair.
16. You don't have to check with anyone else if you want to invite someone to come visit your home for a few days, or to invite them over for a meal.
17. Home is always an agreeable place, since there's no one to disagree with you or point out where you're being silly, wrong or illogical.
18. How can I say this delicately?: The only odors you must live with are your own, and we all seem to think those are at least okay, if not pleasant.
19. You're more likely to know where to find things, because they're where you put them.
20. You tend to get to know people outside your family much better, and to know a broader range of people, because you have time to invest in them.

I keep thinking I've missed something on the overarching level, but that's going to have to do for now. If any of my readers have more Fabulous Things to add, I invite you to do so in the comments section. My friend will benefit. Thanks.

Knocked Down in His Presence

"The Kiss of Judas," fresco in Scrovegni Chapel, PaduaI came across a curious passage the other day in John 18:

When he had finished praying, Jesus left with his disciples and crossed the Kidron Valley. On the other side there was an olive grove, and he and his disciples went into it.

Now Judas, who betrayed him, knew the place, because Jesus had often met there with his disciples. So Judas came to the grove, guiding a detachment of soldiers and some officials from the chief priests and Pharisees. They were carrying torches, lanterns and weapons.

Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, "Who is it you want?"

"Jesus of Nazareth," they replied.

"I am he," Jesus said. (And Judas the traitor was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, "I am he," they drew back and fell to the ground.

Again he asked them, "Who is it you want?"

And they said, "Jesus of Nazareth." "I told you that I am he," Jesus answered.

This part of the story of the arrest of Jesus--the part where he asks who they are looking for--is only found in the gospel of John. What struck me is the part relating how the mob, having heard Jesus confirm his identity, "drew back and fell to the ground."

The fell down? What knocked them down? And why, after that unusual reaction to him, did they get right back up and arrest him? Why didn't the experience of being knocked down leave them rattled enough to change their course of action? Why did they persist in doing the wrong thing?

I have always been taught to stand in the face of adversity. I've been taught that it's honorable to carefully and prayerfully consider a course of action, and then hold my ground even when assailed by those around me who might prefer to "knock me down." And I think it's true that being strong and holding one's ground is an honorable thing.

But reading this passage made me wonder. Are there times when God arranges to knock us down to the ground as a warning that it might be good to reconsider a course of action? Would it be wise for us, when we're feeling that the wind has been knocked out of us, to perceive a calling to recognize that we are in the presence of Jesus, and that we might be dead wrong in our purpose?

Obviously, the answer is "yes." But then comes the hardest question: How do you differentiate between a "stand firm" moment versus a "reconsider your course of action" moment?

Just one of my musings on this particular morning.

Backpacking 2008, Part II

Most photos by relatives

(Yes, the bridge really was this broken)

Story #2:

I knew I was in for a challenging trip when I packed my mismatched little collection of camping stuff into my stepdaughter's pack, which I had asked to borrow, and then put it on me and found it didn't fit. She's a size zero and I'm currently a size... well, let's just say the hip strap didn't make it around me, and I cried when I could be alone with only Husband present. We switched out her pack for my brother-in- law's old pack, and were on our way.

At the trailhead the mosquitoes were miserable--just a harbinger of what was to come. We headed off up the trail, which is not currently maintained by the forest service due to budget cuts. So we were scrambling under and over fallen trees, catching our packs on overhanging branches, and having to beat back the jungle to make our way forward. The bridge over the river was out and has never been rebuilt; we had to cross on a single log. I am known for falling off logs into streams, but fortunately made it across this one, thanks to walking sticks which I bought at REI last Sunday ... for far too much money.

Husband knew that I was not a seasoned backpacker, so he had packed more of our stuff onto his back than I had on mine. And that made me cry, too, seeing him so loaded down. I felt so bad at seeing him suffer because of my insufficiencies and because he wanted me to have a good experience on this trip. Yep, I was feeling inept and weepy.

We finally arrived, drenched with sweat, at Trout Lake and pitched our tents under the trees in gathering gloom. The chipmunks were out to get our food, so it had to be hung up in a tree once supper was over. The forest service had set up a potty box in the woods where it was too scary for a town girl like me to go until the next morning, when I could see where things were. We settled into our tent (which, being new to us, took some time to figure out) after supper and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next day we packed up our tents again and started off up the trail for a 2000-foot climb. The trail was in horrible condition. At one point we had to take our packs off and pass them across several huge fallen logs. The devil's club--a short thorny plant--was snagging at our ankles. The switchbacks were tortuous, and we couldn't hear each other very well because of the roar of the waterfall.

To top it all off, it began raining. Four hours later, drenched to the bone and chilled, we walked into the Copper Lake basin and set up camp between rain showers. Theoretically we weren't allowed a fire, but we made one anyway in a pit where previous campers had apparently done the same.

Did I mention that I knew nothing about camping? The stoves mystified me, and the only food I'd brought was trail food, so I felt like a leech on the relatives, who had brought all the evening meals. Washing dishes is a pain when you're squatting on the ground or sitting on a low log; my joints don't bend as well as when I was a kid. And the pumps for purifying lake water for our use were another mystery. I'd never seen one before. I was in an unfamiliar culture, and just wanted to do what I always do in a new culture: sit in a corner somewhere and watch. Mostly, that's what I did.

That evening I crawled out of my tent to make my way down the little hill to our supper area. I put my hand on a tree trunk, and stepped on the root as I went around it in my journey. The root was slippery, and my boot slipped out from under me. But my hand was still on the tree trunk so my arm was bent back and up, and I dislocated my right shoulder.

I was in so much pain, my whole body was shaking. My physical therapist stepdaughter and my physician sister-in-law worked on me, and in about ten excruciating minutes, the arm had popped twice, the second time bringing it back into it's rightful place. Sister-in-law (ever prepared) gave me some Percoset and anti-inflammatory medication, which were a mercy, and son-in-law made me some hot chocolate to help me warm up. After supper I hung dizzily onto Husband until we reached our tent, where I could crawl in and collapse into a 12-hour sleep. My shoulder ached the rest of the trip, except after I took a couple of anti-inflammatory pills each day.

And did I mention the weather? It was terrible. Mostly it was cold and rainy, with the clouds obscuring the mountains around Copper Lake. The day it did clear off we went on a long hike that took us another 1200 feet up switchbacks and over a pass and down to Big Heart Lake, which still had some ice on it. The mosquitoes at Big Heart were the worst, attacking my elbows (the only place I'd forgotten to apply repellent) with a vengeance. And then when we got back under clear skies with no cloud cover, it was a cold, cold night in the tent, trying to sleep warmly beside our belongings that were still wet from the rain.

We were going to stay until Saturday, but on Friday we decided to hike out, as the rain was not backing off. Plus, speaking for myself, I was becoming quite put off by my own stinky clothes. Once again my husband carried too much, despite my protestations--this time as an effort to lighten the load pulling on my injured shoulder--and I watched with tears in my eyes as he tried to struggle back up when trying to navigate under trees that had fallen across the trail. And again we hiked in the rain. My boots were not a good fit for me; by the time the return hike was done my left foot was numb down one side and I got a blister on the bottom of my toe.

On the way out we passed chirpy, clean hikers coming up the hill for their weekend camping trips. I wanted to box them about the ears and say, "Go back! Don't you realize this is insanity?! It's cold. It's rainy. The animals will try to eat your food. The mosquitoes will devour you alive. The trail isn't in good shape. The bridge up the trail is broken."

But we just smiled and said, "The scenery is worth it!" and hiked onward in dignity.

Postscript:

So, which story will you believe?

They're actually both true. It's always more fun to tell a backpacking story that adds another black pearl to my string of "horrible backpacking experiences." But the truth is, I'm really glad I went and had the whole mix of experiences. I loved being with family. And I learned a lot that will prepare me to make next time a better experience.

And yes, I do plan on a "next time."

Isn't that amazing?

Backpacking 2008, Part I

Inquiring minds may want to know about the backpacking trip I took last week with a group of family members from Husband's side.

Let me try it this way: I'll write two stories, and you decide which one you'd rather take home.

Story #1:

What a great backpacking trip! It started with a fun weekend family reunion at my sister-in-law's home in the woods near the foothills of the Cascades. I hadn't intended to go on the trip, but the family is so fun to be with, and they were so convincing, I threw together a pack and headed out with them on Monday for the 5-day trip. We parked at the trailhead and hiked up a canyon along a rushing river. Some family members joined the backpacking crowd for a day hike before heading home, making it an even larger and merrier group.

I had to cross and river on a single log, and I'm proud as punch to say that I navigated that, as well as other crossings, bravely and sturdily. (See the family watch me cross, above.) We hiked through various river and forest biomes, always with the music of the river nearby, until we reached Trout Lake, a little gem of a lake 600 feet above the elevation where we started.

You should see the way this family backpacks! If anyone knows how to do it with "coolness," they do. They dehydrate everything they're going to need for cooking, carry it in, and lay out meals fit for royalty. Every night we ate gourmet food: Thai food complete with peanut sauce and satay sticks the first night, Italian pasta and pesto the second night, North African food with a superb lentil-tomato soup the third night, and Greek food with hummus and stuffed grape leaves the fourth night.

On the second day we hiked up another 2000 feet in elevation, taking switchbacks by a gorgeous, long waterfall almost all the way up. We camped at Copper Lake, which had a lovely little set of campsites that accommodated the ten of us nicely. The view of the ring of snowy, craggy mountains around Copper Lake makes a stunning picture. And the river water (put through the backpackers' purifiers) was the sweetest-tasting water anywhere.

The area of Foss Lakes is peppered by lakes and waterfalls. From Copper Lake we did a couple of day hikes to other lakes in the Foss Lakes set: Malachite Lake, Little Heart Lake and Big Heart Lake (pictured here in a photo by my brother- in-law). Tiny wildflowers were blooming, and the scenery up over the pass to Big Heart Lake was a panorama of mountains, canyons, lakes and waterfalls. We took so many pictures that I ran out of storage space on my camera before the trip was over.

And there was so much to see: cute little chipmunks, grey-and-white jays, colorful lichen and fungi on rocks, frogs hiding in puddles and pools. We didn't see any bear or moose or wolves or anything scary. One morning we were treated to the sight of a chipmunk that had chewed his way into a used ziplock bag we'd brought up. He couldn't find his way out at first and was scrambling and rolling in the drollest manner as he tried to escape his bag and our laughter!

Best of all were the conversations. I don't think any of them were notably deep, but with a family hiking group like this--three physicists, an ObGyn doctor, a physical therapist, two educators, two engineers, and a kid just finishing high school--you know it had to be a rich time together as we cooked, cleaned up, tended the fire and hiked together.

We hiked down on Friday afternoon and celebrated the end of our trip by chowing down at a Mexican restaurant on the way back to my sister-in-law's home. I loved the trip and hope to go on another one of the family's yearly backpack trips. And next time I'll know how to prepare better, and will contribute one of those gourmet meals!