Merry

This was Christmas with my parents this year - no tree, unless you count the weird looking fake miniature one in the upper right of this photo. My Mom decided she didn't want to deal with a new dog meeting with a shedding evergreen in her living room. Can't blame her. Keefer can be a handful. Little punk. But so cute. (See pictoral evidence below)




My bro and his wife packed up and spent the night under my parents roof as well - we stayed up and played Lord of the Rings Monopoly in our pj's, and had a slow morning with a big breakfast and an interesting discussion about AIDS in Africa. (Random, for Christmas morning...) And then we opened presents. I got a talking Nacho Libre pen, which served to amuse me for hours. I got some other stuff too, but Christmas just gets ever-so practical after a certain age. Depressing.




My youngest nieces got this finger-puppet stage for Christmas, among other things. They promptly put on a series of shows. I love this picture, just because of the expression on Bridget's face.

From the Canal

Transition between seasons.

Philosophy of Education

I wrote this recently, and surprised myself.

(October 15, 2006)

Education is one of the most natural processes in the world. It started when God made the first man and woman with eyes and ears. They were built to receive knowledge, built to see, hear, and understand. Since those first thoughts and connections were made, the cycle has never stopped – the first parents learned and taught their children, and what their children learned, they taught their own.

From the informal, almost instinctual learning of a child to walk, to the intentional pursuit of knowledge, God chooses to use the ones He creates as part of the process of awakening understanding and imparting wisdom to each successive generation. He is a God who delights to reveal Himself, and He has created us to be part of that revelation. When we educate, we bear the image of God by revealing truth.

The process of transferring knowledge is illustrated throughout scripture. God, through Moses, commanded it: “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength. And these words which I command you today shall be in your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up.’” (Deuteronomy 6:5-7, NKJV) The book of Proverbs emphasizes the benefits of heeding the wisdom of elders, and the fruit of pursuing knowledge. But the most hands-on examples come from Jesus, who spent His time speaking in parables, illustrating with signs and wonders, and laying down His life so the world could come face-to-face with the revelation of God’s love. These three models show what are some of the most important tools in education.

Adaptation and flexibility are keys to successful teaching. Keeping in mind that there are different learning styles, it is important to offer multiple ways of interacting with the material. From the above passage in Deuteronomy, it is clear that material presented aurally and discussed in familiar contexts will be more easily retained. Solomon illustrates the importance of practical application, suggesting that a student who connects what they are learning with what is personally relevant will glean more from their studies: “My son, give attention to my words…for they are life to those who find them, and health to all their flesh.” (Proverbs 4:20a, 22, NKJV) Jesus taught with stories that would illuminate His message using contemporary metaphors, and by taking every opportunity for interaction. This cemented His teachings in the minds and hearts of the disciples. Much like a jigsaw puzzle, successful teaching happens when the gap in a student’s understanding is filled with the right connecting piece. It falls to the teacher to discover what shape the information needs to take to complete the picture.

Education is organic. From head to toe, it is in man’s nature to take in information, form it into application, and pass it on. Humankind is designed to learn. To educate is simply to cultivate that discovery, and foster the joy of revelation that produces the ability to apply knowledge to life.

Finney

Here's the link to the school I teach for:

www.finneyschool.org

I have a bio and everything!

What you should know

I took a job as a middle school English and History teacher at the Charles Finney School. Each week I'm responsible to plan an implement the next piece in each of 57 sixth, seventh and eighth grader's educational experience. English. History. This is a major undertaking.

When you think about what you learned in those three years of schooling, what do you remember?

I remember Ms. Roper's multi-cultural emphasis to every eighth grade writing assignment. I remember that she introduced us to the Holocaust - and that the movie Schindler's List was in theaters at the time. My parents agreed to take my friend Megan and I to see it, although I'm not sure it wasn't mostly over our heads at the time. Either way, my understanding of what man is capable of doing got blown open that year.

My memories of middle school are all dotted with emotional connections...the day I wore my brother's black Dr. Marten combat boots to school, even though my feet were too small for them. (I'm fairly certain I didn't have permission to do this.) Mr. Studer's introduction to Russian History via Animal Farm, and my final project which involved a four part choral arrangement of some lyrics from the book. Mr. Cuddy's Greek Mythology unit, and staying up until 2am the day my project was due, both my parents helping me glue pictures from magazines into place to illustrate where Greek influence is built into our society. The whole thing is marked with certain moments where I really internalized a concept, owned it in some way.

What does it take to facilitate that? How can I foster those moments for my students? Perhaps the things I connected with in my classes were the things my teacher talked most passionately about. Maybe I listened better, made stronger links with the things I knew they were excited about.

I remember the poetry I was writing during that time. It was right around there were I started realizing that it wasn't just for fun, but that poetry was a perfectly acceptable way to communicate almost anything. I wrote poetry in response to books for Ms. Roper, poetry to illustrate the parts of satire for Mr. Studer. Poetry to speak seriously to a topic, and poetry to make light of something. But not every child learns the same way, obviously. For some, writing a poem makes more sense than anything else. For others, the thought is mortifying. What can I do to encourage them to find their own way of expressing and interacting with the material? I would accept almost any form, as long as I knew the connection had been made.

The challenge I face is to encourage these students to unpack what God has put inside of them - not to grow them up inside a pre-determined mold of "success." It's like putting on someone else's shoes, and expecting them to feel exactly right. Like the day I wore my brother's boots, there have been many times where I realized what I had been walking around in were not quite my size, not quite the right shape. They were perfectly broken in, smooth and flexible and supportive - but for someone else's feet. I never want to present my students with a one-size-fits-all approach to the processing of information.

Tricky. It's going to take a crazy amount of sensitivity to convince these 57 to come with me on this thing. They are only just learning to trust me when I say I want to know what they think about things. I get the feeling they've come to expect the bad fit - learned to put bandaids on their blisters, an extra pair of socks to take up the space. Well, here's the new deal: wear your own shoes. Isn't that the point of being you, anyway? Don't you think God had something specific in mind - the same way he gave us each our own fingerprint? Specific. Intentional. Precious. Best to start unpacking, because you're going to be you for a while.

403

I ran across this hymn today, and thought (like I do about a lot of hymns) that the lyrics were worth noting. This one is attributed to James Edmeston (1820) and George C. Stebbins (1878). I'm guessing one wrote the words, and the other composed the music. Anyway, enjoy.

Savior, breathe an evening blessing,

ere repose our spirits seal;

sin and want we come confessing:

thou canst save, and thou canst heal.

Though destruction walk around us,

though the arrow past us fly,

angel guards from thee surround us;

we are safe if thou art nigh.

Though the night be dark and dreary,

darkness cannot hide from thee;

thou art he who, never weary,

watchest where thy people be.

Should swift death this night o'er take us,

and our couch become our tomb,

may the morn in heav'n awake us,

clad in light and deathless bloom.

At a farmer's market in Syracuse, in August...

Up

His strength is perfect, you know?

I spent the weekend at a series of seminars on the Names of God. Joe Askins, Chuck Pierce...good teaching, good stuff. Although the amount of activity was way more than I had been able to handle during this recovery time, I managed ok, and even was able to focus despite pain meds. (I guess I'm pretty well adjusted to them, by now.)

I love the way it feels to be a student. I mean, these sessions combine to form an actual class for the Wagner Leadership Institute (WLI) which is a brain-child of C. Peter Wagner's ministry based in Colorado. Nationwide, people can apply to enter degree programs and earn a diploma in several different specified ministry areas. My Mom, for example, is pursuing a Masters and P.H.D in Practical Ministry. She earns credits through reading certain books and writing papers, taking classes and writing about the information, and any ministry opportunities she's involved in. WLI-Rochester is booming, and I'm considering applying myself. Seems like kind of a cool way to keep myself plugged into the wealth of insight and revelation coming from the prophets and teachers of the church today. Anyway, onward.

Needless to say, I got a lot of prayer this weekend, for healing. I noticed almost and immediate change in my mobility and flexibility. My energy level has increased, during the times I'm awake and up doing something. And my spiritual/emotional health is certainly better than where it was a week ago - the despair and depression are gone. Praise God. God had marked this weekend for me, even before the car accident, as a turning point of some kind - and it was. I'm still gleaning, so to speak, from the notes I took and the things I heard, but at the base of it all is some renewed hope. Vision. I believe God, when He says I'm His child, and He is my Good Father. Daily, He's renewing my strength, filling me up with fresh faith to believe His promises to me. For however long I am in this quiet, resting place, it's ok. I caught a glimpse of His face that reminded me who I am, and where we're going. I'm not alone, here. And what was intended for my harm, God has turned into blessing - He's making changes in me that will completely alter how I approach my daily life.

So it's just a matter of time. When I've gotten what I was supposed to get in this place, we'll move on. This is God's time.

23 days later

Between muscle spasms, I bring an update on my accident and recovery.

It was several days before I realized the extent of my injuries - I seemed mostly in one piece, and just figured it would take a few days for the aching to subside. I actually went back to work for two days, but by halfway through the second shift I knew something was really wrong with my back. I was getting increasing pain in my neck, tenderness in my lower back, and this weird biting-pinching thing in the middle. It felt like I would break in half if I lifted anything else. So I saw my doctor (6 days after the accident) and she diagnosed me with "severe whiplash" and handed me 5 prescription papers:

1) vicodin - it's generic substitute, for pain
2) flexeril - again with the substitute, a muscle relaxant
3) an order not to lift anything over 10 pounds for several weeks
4) an order to see a chiropractor and/or
5) an order to see a massage therapist

So, I got the drugs, told my work they shouldn't plan on seeing me for a while, and stopped everything. It's been over two weeks on these meds now, and I've been seeing a chiropractor who says I shouldn't plan on going back to work any time soon. I'm officially on disability now.

Basically, I pass the days at my parent's house, sleeping a lot and trying to remember when I took my last dose of what. I am on a regimen of ice/heat/ice for my entire back - which is still a bit swollen, still spasming, and cracking whenever I move. My chiropractor says I just have to be patient, because unlike a fracture which is healed in six weeks, I have soft muscle tissue damage throughout my back - and it will just take time, and holding still, to heal. I can be on my feet/sitting up for only a few hours a day, and then I'm done.

It's a little like being old, I think. I am totally reliant on people to help me do everything - I can't drive, can't lift anything, and shouldn't be doing a lot of bending over. So, for example, when I drop something (which happens a lot, actually, with these muscle relaxants in me) I have to stand there and go, "Uh...Mom...could you get that for me?" My schedule, if I am going out somewhere, or need to run an errand, is totally dependent on someone else being able to make time in their day to do it for me, or to take me there. And under all of this is the fact that I'm on some serious drugs, which make me really mellow, and make it really hard to think about things. I have a hard time focusing and have taken to writing everything down, just in case I forget later - like whether or not I took my pills. I suddenly can totally identify with my grandmother. It's terribly frustrating.

As if I needed any icing on my cake, I had to move out of my apartment last weekend. I was thankful to have a lot of help from family and friends, and the entire day was just a whirlwind for me. So all of my stuff is stacked up in my brother's garage (I'm moving into their spare room for a while), but I've been staying at my parents house since all this went down. I'd like to make some progress settling in over there, but like I said - if I want to go somewhere, that means someone has to have the time to take me. And if I'm going to be unpacking/sorting boxes, it would take someone who is capable of lifting/moving said boxes. So instead of trying to do any of that, I've taken to just standing around and crying out of helplessness. And then I put myself down for a nap. And wake up later. And I'm fine.

23 days since it happened. And this is where I am now. I was supposed to be on a plane, yesterday, going home to Nebraska for a week. God told me I wasn't supposed to take that trip, so two days before the car accident I started calling it off. And then this whole, world-shaking thing came down. I believe He knew where I'd be today - that I wouldn't be able to physically take the trip, that I'd be in the middle of a messy move, that I'd be tired, and angry, and frustrated, and sad about the way my life looks right now - that I'd be going insane with impatience about where I find myself in almost every area of my life. My home, my possessions, my car, my schedule, my work, my music, my body, my brain, my plans - everything is in pieces. Nothing has been untouched.

So where does this end? I don't know. I won't even know what I'm doing tomorrow until I wake up and see how bad I hurt that day. I just have to wait. There's nothing else I can do. Nothing can speed any of this up.

I guess I just need you to pray for me. I know it's messy, but just think of something, somehow, and ask God to send me some strength, or some peace, or some hope - because it's a little hard to fight for myself these days. A little help would be good.

Bobby broke up

I wrecked my car on Tuesday, September 12. Well, actually, someone else wrecked my car. I'm innocent, I tell you. Any which way, I had to say good-bye to my beloved Bobby, although he'd been testing my patience for a good year or so. He was my special friend, who facilitated the monumental drive from Nebraska to New York three years ago. Many tears. Much love.

sloganized.

www.thesurrealist.co.uk/slogan.cgi

My friend Aaron sent me this link...pretty funny stuff. All you do is put a name or something in, and it spits out a catchy slogan. Here are mine:

1. Bread Wi' Maran taken out.
2. Make someone happy with a Maran.
3. Maran tested, mother approved.
4. Behold the power of Maran.
5. Get the Maran out.
6. It's a new Maran every day.
7. I liked the Maran so much, I bought the company!
8. Let the Maran begin.
9. The Maran that eats like a meal.
10. Don't live a little, live a Maran.

After that, they got a little dumb...I did like this one, though: "Think Maran."

I tried toenails and horseshoes, but I think names are more fun...be sure to post any good ones...

most fortunate

I can't even remember the last time I had the desire to blog. Weird. And I'm writing this now just to assure myself that I'm not going to have to add this past-time to the long list of things I "used" to do, or "did" once. Charcoals and a sketchbook in a drawer optimistically labeled "art" that I haven't pulled out for two years...kickboxing gloves in a bag of random "sports" stuff...boxes of stationary and an address book, complete with stamps I bought before the last time the postage rate went up. But no - I am a blogger. I am one who blogs. I blog.

So I recently revisited the issue of personality profiling via Myers-Briggs. I, based not on completion of a test, but on my understanding of the results I most closely match, am an ENFP. The very fact that I didn't finish the test when I started it sometime in college was all the evidence my friend Kate (who knows that test well) needed to confirm her suspicion of my combination of traits. ENFP's are multi-talented, and good at a lot of what they try, provided they are passionate about the task at hand. When they aren't excited about it any more, they move on to something else. There's a ton of other stuff about ENFP's, just like for the other 15 combinations of traits, but that one particular thing has my attention these days - how can I possibly be okay with that? I think my fear of commitment is really fear that a) I won't stick to it because b) I won't feel like sticking to it later on. Complicated. And now I have the thought that it's "just my personality" to weigh me down.

Good thing God's bigger, and good thing none of those tests are in scripture. I'm just going to have to keep wrapping myself up in Jesus until I act, think, talk, and respond like He would. Then I don't have to worry about hurting people when I don't follow through because I got bored. "Sorry," She says, "It's just my personality."

Oh yeah. That's the other big thing with ENFP's: Everything is about relationship. They want harmony. They make decisions based on what the repercussions will be on other people, and when they aren't sure how it will affect everyone, they stall for fear of hurting people. Looks like indecision or procrastination, but it's just that they're concerned how their decision will be received. Because that's more important than the actual decision. Interesting.

Explains a lot about my past.

I hope I am growing up.

I had a cat

Every Christmas, my family and I went to pick out a tree. I loved this part - a bitter cold Nebraska night, all bundled up, over to the parking lot on West O Street where some guys had set up their crowd of pines. Hats, mittens, zippers up over our mouths and my Dad, browsing for the best trunk to fit our tree stand and the space Mom had cleared in the living room. I was trailing them for a while, until I realized that I didn't care about their logical way of making this decision. I had a feeling about the trees. One of them was coming home with us, and I didn't think it had to be the one with the right structure. I didn't want the one that would shed the least needles, and I didn't want the pokey kind that looks fake. I wanted the soft ones, with long, olive needles that hugged your face when you went in for a present. So before long, I was wandering the back rows of trees by myself, thinking about how many people were coming to pick from the lot of them, and how there were some that would never go home with anyone, based on our list of criticisms with their natural form. How sad - these ones in the back corner that no one would see, whose trunks were slanted, or who were missing a branch in the wrong place and had a hole that couldn't be disguised. The wrong shape, wrong height.

And being the melancholy, emotional, empathetic, poetic, sensing little girl I was, I was moved by this moment I was having with the trees. I knew they were lonely, and believed that they, like the front row trees, deserved to be taken to homes, adorned, and adored. "This one!" I called, "Let's have this one." Coming around the rows, Mom appears to see me lovingly holding the branches of a sad little tree. "Oh, honey," (her eyes tell me her answer) "We've already found the one we want." She starts walking away, expecting me to follow. I look at my tree, realizing that I'm it's only hope for a future, that it will never be picked if I don't rescue it. Why does no one understand this but me? "Maran! Come on!" I hear Mom's voice from four rows over. I begin to walk away, glancing back to see my tree's last little quiver in farewell. Tears begin to swell. When I appear before my parents, they are concerned - what had they missed? I am trying to explain the gravity of the situation, but they gather that I've attached my heart to a certain "lesser" tree, and begin to reason with me. This is upsetting as well. My tree, the tree we have to save, hangs in the balance. I stand there, surrounded by green, my breath freezing and my cheeks chapping with tears, over a tree.

I wish I could explain this, or even offer and ending to the story - I don't remember how many years this scenario took place, and how many times I was unable to convince my parents of the importance of this task. I am sure, however, that going my way at any point would have saved them some money - the trees I wanted were cheap, undesirables.

Sort of an interesting memory in the line up of "when Maran was little" stories my family delights to share with all the wrong people. Most of the ones that still get me riled up a bit have a deeper layer they don't know about - an emotional turmoil that gripped my little empathetic heart. These are vivid in my mind. For me, something big was going on, and doing anything different (no matter how reasonable) seemed wrong.

I had a cat named Pickle. Out of the entire litter of kittens, I chose her - the smallest, and the weakest. I liked her. She took my heart immediately - I saw her getting pushed around, struggling with her siblings, and I wanted her. My mother asks me if I'm sure, and I tell her this one's mine. What I didn't know at the time was that Pickle had not only been the runt of the litter, but something had been internally wrong with her at birth - something about her insides hanging out of her butt or something, and the vet sort of sewing her up and hoping for the best. Anyway, all was well until she started doing strange things, like purring and then scratching at your eyes. We began to realize that she had her "wires crossed" as Mom always said - confusing one emotion for another. You'd be petting her, all cozy, and then she'd hiss and take a swing at your face. Despite this being a recurring problem, I was determined that she would work it out, grow out of it, learn to love me better. I didn't want to give up, and I didn't want to even think about what would happen to her if she wasn't mine.

I woke up on a Saturday morning, sleepy, with Pickle curled up on my pillow. I petted her, and she purred. All was well. "See," I told myself, "We're ok." And then she scratched me across the face, drawing blood and just missing my eye. I screamed. She hissed and ran off to hide. I ran, crying, to my parent's room, where Dad declared, "That's it. Pickle goes." And that was the end of my cat.

I don't know what any of this means. Maybe it was the immature version of my spiritual gifts coming out. Maybe it was my personality - making decisions based primarily on how I feel about the situation, rather than the facts in front of me. Well, whatever, there it is. For what it's worth, I think the bigger story is sort of profound...even insightful, for a young child. Moved by the lesser, the underdog. Compassion. I could take a lesson from myself sometimes.

Word and words

It's been 18 days since I came back from Colorado. Back, not home. I have had a hard time trying to figure out what to do with all the drive in me to go west...it seems more pronounced than other years, after a visit there. I am beginning to wonder if I'm picking my feet up, or if I never put them down here in the first place.

A friend and I were talking about cars this week, and he asked me what my dream car is. I began to rattle off a scenario: "Well, if I was living in Colorado, or someplace like that..." And he stopped me and said, "No, I mean, what's you're dream car here?" That's when it hit me that I don't have an answer to that question. I don't have a dream car in Rochester. I don't even have imaginings of what my life would look like here in the future - no house, no nothing. And no dream car. In fact, I've never dreamed about my life being here at all.

Isn't that sad? My entire family lives here. I think a person can be happy here. But I can't imagine never living anywhere else. And I've watched myself through enough seasons of change now to know what it looks like - the difference between God's leading through my thoughts/emotions, and my own stubbornness. This feels too smooth to be me.

But then I come to the part where I have to keep my mouth shut. I don't know where God is leading me, how soon, or why. And to speculate sort of crosses me over into that, "Yeah, just shut up before you say something stupid" zone. Until I know something, I shouldn't guess at it. And it just makes the people around me uncomfortable to hear me talk like that.

Funny thing about talking. You'll believe anything you say enough. I wrote that into one of my most bitter songs - something about how "maybe talking is the folly that I owned/just say it twice to make it so." That was about a boy I talked too much about, and ended up getting my heart way too involved before there was really a relationship to speak of. That messed me up pretty good later on...so now I'm more careful about that. I've never seen excessive verbalization of thoughts/feelings about a certain topic lead to clarity on what God is really saying on the matter...it just seems to make more of a mess to clean up later. And I hate mental messes like that - I hate not being able to really hear God on an issue. I just want to be quiet and wait and really know it's from Him - and then move on it. So that's all I'm going to say about it. Longing out loud doesn't make anything of it. It's still just ache.

Today a co-worker told me he hated me. I mentioned something about having been to Japan once, and he looked me in the face, and told me he hated me for it. He really is just envious, because he desperately wants to go himself - he's been learning Japanese, has plans to move there eventually, and hopes to find himself a "hot Japanese girl" of some kind or another. And his way of expressing this was to be the first person in quite some time to really say those words to me. "I hate you!" He said, multiple times. I walked away annoyed - I know he was just messing around, just expressing himself in his own way, but it was almost like taking blows after the first few. Does that make sense? I mean, we recognize the power of saying, "I love you," to the people around you, how it can melt you down, make your day, soften a hard heart after a while...and I hadn't really thought too hard about what the opposite would do. I do not question that I am loved in all the right ways from all the people it matters - it's just that here's this guy, just some guy, throwing his hate around like it's nothing. I mean, the word. I don't believe he actually hates me. But he said it. Where did that land in the universe? Who knows. I still am a little bugged. Man, I just have always had a natural boundary with that - I can't say it to someone. I don't think I've ever said it to someone. Seriously.

Anyway, sticks and stones, eh?

Black and Beauty

Well, today I saw this stuff. I love my camera.






And then I was taking a shower when the power went out. No windows, door closed, pitch black. I pride myself on the fact that I did NOT panic. And I did NOT drop the soap.

So I was reading John today, the part where Jesus feeds the 5,000. Pretty amazing stuff. But the part that I like best? The fact that Jesus keeps going up on a moutain. I knew it was in scripture somewhere. God likes mountains. And then I read Psalm 87... "He has set his foundation on the holy mountain; the Lord loves the gates of Zion more than all the dwellings of Jacob. Glorious things are said of you, O city of God: Selah..."

Loster Lake

THIS is what we're driving all over the place. Yeah, SO not us.






View from Red Sandstone Road. That's why they're called the Rockies.







Me at Lost Lake. I wanted to make sure to keep the location a secret, thus no real all-encompassing shots. Nice clouds reflected in the water though, don't you think?





Just another nice wild flower for Christina, Queen of Properly Labeling All Plant Life.








"I like feet. I do not know why." (Go watch Mr. Deeds. You'll laugh.)






Mount Holy Cross, from the Lost Lake Trail. Spectacular. The cross is not visible from this angle, but the left face does have a crevace that fills up with snow in the shape of a cross which you can see from, say, the top of Vail Mountain. Gorgeous and majestic.



Another shot of mountains. Sorry if it's getting boring, but this stuff is so insanely beautiful. Behold, people.

Lost Lake

Trees!



Mom and Dad
















More Trees.



















Dad








Thing with wings














Wild flower...this one's for you, Christina

















Very weird tree

Painfully obvious.

Mount Whitney, I think. One can never be sure.










Nice aspen. :o















Dad and Mom behind me on Whitney Lake Trail. Most of it was steeper than this...







Whitney Creek. Crazy cold, and totally refreshing.

The 23rd of never.

Hi, friends. Sick of pics? Well, you're NOT GETTING ANY! Just kidding. No, I'm not - I'm experiencing technical difficulties, and refuse to power through them tonight. I'm beat. It was a great day...

We tried a hike we've never done in our 10+ years of Vail...up a trail called Whitney Lake something-or-other. (Weird, I've never actually seen that phrase written down.) It's a bit past Minturn, and pretty nice. It took a lot out of us, though, since we three (Mom, Dad and I) haven't exactly been training for this stuff. Anyway, it was a good first trek out for us - we managed to stay hydrated and stuff, which is no small feat in our experience. Our family has a knack for overestimating what we are physically capable of. Anyway, there we were, hiking our little hearts out, climbing and resting, climbing and resting. It felt so good. I love the journey of it all. I like it even better when we reach our destination - so fulfilling. Today it was only as far as Whitney Creek, a bit over halfway if you're measuring all the way to the actual lake. I would have loved to have seen it - and probably will go back sometime - but for today, we were happy to dunk our feet in the excruciatingly cold water and then hike down. I read Numbers and Don Miller by the pool, journaled a bit, swam, had dinner, talked serious with my parents, and now I'm here. It was a full day. Perfect.

So here's what else - I was way ahead of my parents for most of the hike, because my standard anywhere pace is like four clicks above theirs, especially when it comes to a mountain. This created little pockets of time for me on the hike...I was able to find a good rock to stop at, unclip my mountainsmith (that baby rocks), and stare out over it all. (No, you can't see the pics.) I took out a pen and wrote some stuff down, at one point - just some things God was reminding me of. It was good. Later, I transferred that info to my journal, and sort of started to unpack it. Like I said, I love a journey, and a destination. God started speaking to me that morning on the hike (which turned out to take about 4 hours by the end of it) and continued to flesh it out throughout the day. Healthy, I think. Communication.

Stuff I'm praying about that he's talking me through? Finances. Time management/priorities. Ministry focus/vision. And yes, boys. We made some progress with the first area today, so perhaps he's got an agenda for the others in the course of the next few days. I just love that he wants to make use of this time too - that he totally IS waiting for me to come to him and receive on this trip. I told you so. Expectation ----> Joy. My God is so good.

...part four...

I hope you appreciate the fact that it took four posts to get these pics up - apparently blogger has a limit to the size of each post. Anyway, it's a good sampling of day 1 in Colorado. I think I may have a future as a wildlife photographer. What do you think?

...Part three...

Live from Colorado, Part Deux

Big Rocks.