,

Hope is
Two hands fisted,
Held before you side by side.
One caging in a wasp,
The other clasping
Butterflies.
Touch one too bold,
Provoke a sting,
Clutch the other,
You will crush,
Its wings.

Hope is holding,
Wishing with an ache,
The patient balance
Of two possible, opposing ways.
It’s to endure,
The weave of pain,
With grace,
The tension of a maybe grief,
Against a fragile, fluttering,
Faith.

After a morning of diligent work on niggling details, I drove over to one of the foothills near our house, a craggy king of a mountain named Mt. Herman. He has a fire-scarred face, knit back again with greening scrub oak and neatly planted rows of swaying blue spruce. Red dirt paths criss and cross deep into his secret nooks and untouched forests and I go there for a taste of blue and green and red rock song every now and again. The wind was up as I walked into the valley. In its dance with the fresh sun, it was like a laughing child on a playground; noisy, fast, tumbling up and down the sky in easy play. I reached a flat stretch of road running smooth between great halls of fir and noticed on the fingers of one tree, a tiny constellation of lime green dots- small stars of new pine needle growth. I stopped. Looked.

And felt a sudden inner stumble as the ever-present train of musts and oughts and deadlines that dog me came to an ungainly crash at my back. Their irritated impatience to move on was an almost physical push at my feet. Who was I to be stopping smack in the middle of the day? There was exercise to be gotten, money to be made, writing deadlines to meet, and it all crowded around me with a hot-breathed insistence that felt very much like guilt. But there was one place in me, one quiet, untouchable spot at my center that I had found in the earliest minutes of the morning, and out of that place came an alternate voice. I barely know how to describe it, but I had this sudden conviction, sure as the midday sun burning my face, that there was, for me at that moment, nothing in the world so urgently important as looking at that tree, and loving the fact of its existence.

It was one of those moments that strikes like lightning, and in its brisk, bold brilliance, I was sure that nothing in the entire world was actually necessary except loving God and loving people. That the incessant, adrenaline fed drive I feel to produce, to prove, to be successful in work or education or even ministry, becomes the oblivious bustle of a self-important child when I allow it to be the force that guides my days. The world, as in human activity apart from God, continuously sweeps me into its self-absorped pageant of frantic work, pushing me to prove my worth and ability to whoever it is that is watching me. I get so terrified of failing. So terrified that I drop quiet, contemplation, peace, all in a desperate gamble to win at this game of productive adulthood.

But what about the call to childhood? Those impossibly haunting words “do not worry about your life,” spoken by a man who told me I was a child of God. I wonder if my dependence on self, my assumption that it’s my work alone that will save me in the here and now is a sort of slap in this Father’s face. I don’t see how it couldn’t be. And it’s not that I think I’m supposed to bum around without work or purpose. It’s just that the work isn’t the point. The Father, in his beauty, his strength, is the point. Work is in its right place when it makes him clear. Work that can justly be called good has its being rooted in him, not myself. It doesn’t run away from him or obscure his reality. Real work is quiet and strong and as vocal a witness to its Creator as that tree in fragile new life.

“You and I, each one of us without exception, can be defined as an aching need for the infinite.” -Thomas Dubay

Home to the sunny windiness (is that a word? it should be) of springtime in the mountains- one day in a black tantrum, the next in spasmodic, ebullient sunshine. I have unpacked. My laundry is NOT finished (nor is it ever really like to be). There are new bits of the world decking my walls. I’ve finished three books (this is my particular form of coping with jetlag) and am hot on the heels of the fourth. These are, in case you are wondering, Mysticism, by Evelyn Underhill, which it has taken me two years to finish, Reading the Classics with C.S. Lewis, also awhile in coming, but entirely satisfying. I now have my own self and C.S. Lewis composed reading list for the next oh, thirty years or so. Finished my first Dorothy Sayers mystery, and found my instinct that it would be great plane reading to be entirely right. And am now hotly pursuing the completion of Wendell Berry’s Standing By Words. Reviews will follow. Someday.

In the windblown aftermath of this journey, I find it far easier to sort pictures than memories – to pick the photos most poignant to my heart, draw out their color, crop them the slightest to bring the essence they embody to the fore. It’s one of those hands on arts that works quietly on my brain, letting an unthinking action allow my thoughts to form. For now, here are a few of those photos, random glimpses of a country which sparked a healthy, and unexpected affection in me. A few of are events and friends. More are just the still-lifes that blinked up at me with particular allurement as we walked a dozen streets/markets/gardens/airports. Hope your springtime days are renewing whatever winter lingers in your heart and garden.

There's just something fun about seeing this in existence in the world.

He looks like a sage to me.

They call him the little emperor.

Out of the corner of my eye...

By the river...

Guide, host, friend.

A recurring sight.

Amazing hand done lettering - she just color-swished these dragons and sunsets and birds out in front of our eyes. This dimpled assistant kindly displayed the finished product.

Something ancient and intriguing must be lurking behind that door.

In a Beijing market.

The guy in red was laughing at me as I tried to nonchalantly get him on film. This is in the Empress' Gardens in Beijing.

Very new and now, very beloved friend, Rossana.

We fly out tomorrow. I’m gonna miss this place! Next stop… home!

I can’t even begin to think of how to describe the flood-like rush of emotion, memory, and friendship that has marked this trip. For now, I wanted to say a quick hello from Beijing, our last stop before home. Below are a few of my favorite glimpses of China. This has been a soul-expanding trip. Here’s at least a few of the pictures that fill my mind from our travels. Hope you all at home (even in the general home of the US) are faring well in this springtime month. Sounds like I’ll be arriving to the iffy loveliness of springtime snow. Hope there are some flowers for most of you!

Soup dumpling nested in soaked ginger. A memorable Shanghai meal. Balancing one between ebony chopsticks, plopping it hurriedly in one's mouth, and then having it burst in tangy mouthful of broth. Well. That's a taste sensation to remember.

The Great Wall.

We've eaten a LOT of these. Found this wide-eyed lot for sale by the bag full for snacking in a little river side village. You should try some!

I love this picture. I just love this picture. In Beijing, shopping for scarves, and there she was. Queen of her corner.

"The pearl market," our friend said, "that's the one place I want to take you." Doesn't it just sound exotic? Oh my. Real pearls, hundreds of strands in the muted luminesence of ocean colors. Everywhere.

Behold, our taxi.

And the translator was who?

In one corner of the gardens of the Summer Palace (created when one strong-willed empress appropriated naval funds to create a garden), this woman hand letters English and Chinese characters. She transformed the letters of our names into fiery dragons, kissing birds of paradise, and splendidly setting suns. It was joy simply to watch her hands move.

Into the arching, criss-crossed ceilings, and echoing terminal of Beijing, we stumbled off our 12 hour plane flight, feeling that dizziness that comes from still being awake when your body has decided you’re asleep. It’s a pearly morning now and we are settled round our lovely hostess’ table with very strong coffee and bagels as we discuss our itinerary. We are here for eighteen days. My mom will be speaking almost every day, and we will be traveling all over the country. I’ve signed on as the journalist of this adventure, so I will hope to be able to update here as often as I have connection. Oh, and I just got a camera, so I’ve stepped up in the world! The first speaking engagement is this afternoon, so I’m away now to dress up, and tonight we fly to Shanghai. I am humbled to be here. Very humbled. Remember these times and people in your pr@yer. There is so much need and it is a grace to be here. Au Revoir for now.

I’ve been trying to get hold of this picture for almost a month now. It was cold, and thrilling, and amazing to be in Times Square at night. Aren’t my dad and bro cute?