Phoenix, Arizona

We spend a week in the curious melange of the American Southwest. It is a place to which thousands of Americans flock anew every day, but to which they must also bring their own water. The seguaros have known this for years, of course--that's why it takes them a hundred years to grow five feet in height. But human developments of homes, golf courses, rec centres, and pools sprout up in this arid clime as if there were a fountain of youth under every desert stone. Some strange inversion of values has drawn God's people back into the wilderness, where terebinths and cedars wither as seedlings and where milk and honey need swift refrigeration. And they need hand cream--lots of it.

But there is redemption in the newly populated desert.

Yesterday we drove in traffic for the first time since leaving Los Angeles. There, sitting behind the steering wheel, I relived some ancient dream: relaxing in the comfort of a beige bucket seat, sipping air filtered through the carbuerators and mufflers of countless cars while the gorgeous golden globe of the sun set in a wide polluted sky. Certainly this is how Phoenix is meant to be experienced. The cowboys can have their sunsets over the brown sandy fields of cacti, putting their lips to tin coffee cups. I will celebrate the dusk on a pale grey sheet of asphalt, my lips caressing the steel tailpipe of a Honda Civic. That's the real Phoenix, now.

I wonder if I'll be able to get a fix like that in New Zealand.

Snow

We have left the land of snow and cold. But we received the treat of a few inches of new fallen Rocky Mountain snow in Durango this morning before we left. As I watched the final flakes descend from the sky, I thought about the miracle I beheld.

Yahweh did a wonderful job with snow. If you’ve ever seen pictures of snowflakes taken with an electron microscope, then you know of the perfect six-pointed fractal designs that are unique to collections of molecules made with single oxygen and two hydrogen atoms. It dances through the air with chaotic choreography, gracing the cold hard stage with its glass slippers. It blankets the world in silence, as if to say, “Be quiet, and observe the beauty before you.” Its insular cold beckons nature to sleep and forget the worries of life. It brushes wisdom and grace upon the heads of mountain tops, transforming dull knobs into shimmering towers. It gleefully bears the weight of children’s sleds and lovingly catches them when they fall. It is strong enough to bend the boughs of trees but humble enough to yield its territory when spring comes with its claim. And when it yields, it offers each year’s youthful sprigs just what they need to grow. What a perfect work did Yahweh with snow! Next time you see it, or hold it in your mitten, or catch it on your tongue, thank God for this wondrous creation.

~ em

On the Road Again...

Like an upbeat country song, so our adventure continues. Today we moved out of the manse in Lake City and watched the peaceful town disappear in our rearview mirrors as we set out again. We are in Durango tonight and will drive on to Peoria, AZ tomorrow and spend a few days with Sara’s folks before we set out for WI next week.

We hope this Christmas season finds you filled with joy!
~sjt&e

When Snow Crunches

When I walked out the door this morning to go to the community men's fellowship, it was -20 degrees Fahrenheit.

-20.

Brr.

And I could see every star in the sky.

~ emrys

You Know It's Cold When...

...when you're out walking and your perspiration turns to frost on your hat and mittens!! 5 miles at 5ºf. Definately looking forward to walking in warmer climates after this week!!
~sjt

On the Loss of a Father

I sat in the front pew of the church at my dad’s memorial service. Before me, on my right, was the choir loft in which my dad had sung for many years. I remembered the vivacity with which he spoke about upcoming choir performances, difficult offertories to be sung in worship, and—when he had taken up the violin in earnest again—his part in instrumental numbers. As I looked on the choir loft, I noticed his absence. When I closed my eyes, I could hear the tremble of his bass voice from the back of the choir. I could hear that it was missing.

I wept when I thought about his missing voice. It would be missing from my life, missing from phone calls and conversations.

We stood up to sing “Amazing Grace.” (I should be accurate here: I stood up and the congregation followed my example. I understand why the congregation was not asked to stand for any hymns at the memorial service, but you can’t sing “Amazing Grace” sitting down. You just can’t.) As I mouthed the words with trembling lips and a tongue stilled by emotion, I noticed something. My dad was in the choir loft again. But now, rather than a single voice singing bass in accompaniment to the ten or twelve other folks in the loft, I heard my dad as part of host of angels. He had joined the heavenly choir that sings “Amazing Grace” into eternity and back. Of course, it’s the place where he belongs, having sung and played Christ’s praises in faith for most of his life.

Then there was a new mourning, and a new weeping that came over me. It was the mourning not of those who have no hope, but the mourning of hope. For to be exposed to the truth that Jesus brings the faithful children home upon death is to be exposed to the equally potent truth that I am not yet home. Pain came no longer from the realization that Dad was not with me; pain now came from the realization that I am not with him. He is experiencing the fullness of life in Jesus Christ, and I am not.

Academics refer to something similar in what is called the “already/not yet” problem. In the Scriptures we see Jesus announcing God’s kingdom as having arrived, and the disciples witness his resurrection. But evil still exists in the world, and we do not yet experience the New Jerusalem as it will be when Christ returns. At my dad’s memorial service I found myself caught between the life I have—which mourns the end of my dad’s life on earth—and the life I will have but do not yet have—of which he already partakes. The reverse of this phenomenon is what someone once called “realizing that you’re on deck”: that is, when your parents die, you realize that you’re next. There’s no more generational buffer between you and the inevitable stilling of heart beat and breath.

But my sense in the pew was not an anxiety borne of fear. It was an anxiety—an agitation—borne of expectation. I will be there, singing with him and the hosts and all the generations of the saints; but I am not there yet. And my absence for this world is terrible. Let me be there now, Lord, rather than here! Suddenly having patience—a trait that seems to have a genetic origin in Dad and me—with God is difficult. I am left on this side of the great divide, to wait.

So I wait, with only one thing to do between Now and Then. Oddly—in an uncanny twist that would make the hosts of angels smile—that thing to do is precisely what Dad had a gift for doing. It is to serve.

Praise be to our Lord Jesus Christ, who teaches us to serve in such a way that we may be prepared to sing with the choirs of angels some day!

Past Cancer!!

Sara received a clean bill of health from oncology on Wednesday and had her port removed this morning. She's feeling a little sore but that's to be expeced when you're cut open and stuff's taken out! We're greatful for all the wonderful docs we had here in Durango through this process and the nurses and staffs at Mercy Medical, Southwest Oncology & Durango Cancer Center. All were huge contributing factors in quick discovery of and success in treating Sara's cancer. So now we move on with life, letting this just be a page in the book that has taught us the value of relationships and the preciousness (not sure that's a real word- but hey- I just had surgery!) of life.

Enjoy your loved ones this holiday season!
Much love
sjt&e

Yarn Dying

The weekend before Thanksgiving I was invited to join a local artist in experimenting with yarn dying. We had a great time. She let me pick the colors and we set to work measuring lengths of wool yarn, stuffing them in zip-lock bags and adding dye to color the measured segments. It was a fun craft to learn and a great time of visiting. After the yarn was dyed, it was “cooked”, rinsed and dried. The finished product is a beautiful, soft, variegated yarn of red, yellow, blue and gray. I’ve used some of it to knit a scarf that’s on its way to a friend and the rest I will be using for a scarf for myself! (in all my yarn works I haven’t kept anything yet!)

Thanksgiving and Chocolate

My mom came in for Thanksgiving and discovered that flying in and out of Rocky Mountain Colorado can be an adventure. After mechanical difficulties and lost pilots, the airline brought her in to us a day late. We had a good time touring Lake City and the next southern metropolis of Creede. We saw lots of deer and ate lots of food on Thanksgiving Day. (Sara says she won't cook for the last two weeks we're here--my orders are to get rid of the leftovers before we hit the road on the 12th of December.)

We hunted for several hours for elk, but they had not yet descended from the high country to be spotted from the road. But on one elk-seeking trip Mom and I discovered one of the few organized attractions in the Lake City-Creede area: the 16th Annual Chocolate Festival.

So on Black Friday, when the rest of the over-developed world is flooding into shopping malls and fighting off other price-gouged parents in the checkout lines, we were strolling down the three-block main street of Creede, tasting nuggets of chocolate delicacies meant to impress the most cultivated Western palate: brandy-soaked chocolate-covered cherries, white and dark chocolate fudges, pure Bavarian hot chocolate over homemade marshmallow, orange chocolate truffles, and nineteen other sweet morsels. Everyone in Creede (and some surrounding areas) came out for the event, flocking into the streets and making the town bustle in a season when most towns in the region seem like ghost towns. Who knew?

When we weren't off hunting elk or devouring chocolate, we played a lot of cards: casino, solitaire, and a little bit of bridge (Sara and I had never played before). Thanks to the inventor of playing cards for offering humanity a challenging and social way to pass the time!

This morning I dropped Mom off at the airport and waited for the requisite delay to discover if the plane would be able to land and pick up outbound passengers. Since she hasn't called again, we can only assume that Mom is somewhere between Denver and the Lehigh Valley, on a re-arranged flight schedule. Meanwhile, folks in the Lake City Community Presbyterian Church were decorating the sanctuary for Advent and Christmas. Our worship space is now especially festive, ready for the most extravagant time of the year. And Sara and I sit again in front of the wood stove, waiting for the "ten to twenty inches of snow" that Mr. Weatherman says is supposed to drop in our area of Southwest Colorado. We've got extra wood for the night, and nowhere to drive until Tuesday. Bring on the snow!

The pictures that follow are: one of the ubiquitous deer of Lake City; sign on the south end of Creede; a mural in downtown Creede, depicting the landscape of the Western Slope; and Sara enjoying a "fondue fountain" of dark chocolate. Enjoy!
~ emrys

The Tylers & Rose Girls

Emrys & Katie Beth
Sara & Emma Grace