Grant's Trail

I wanted to try a new trail today.  In one week, I start on my Katy trail trip.  I wanted to continue training, preparing for the trip, but I didn't want to get bored with the Katy before I even started.  So I hunted up Grant's trail.  They don't exactly make it easy.  I have no idea if that's intentional or not.  On line there are maps and pictures and enthusiastic comments.  There are lists of parking lots and warnings of where not to park.  What there aren't, are directions to those authorized parking lots.  They vaguely suggest north of the highway, south of the highway, and show friendly little balloons at intersections on a miniature map.  My efforts to expand the map so I could see where everything really was had no effect.

In the end, all I could do was plug the unknown cross streets into the GPS and hope for the best.  Initially, the drive made perfect sense.  It lead me past the bike shop I knew frequently hosted rides there, and toward the highway I expected.  Then it took an odd side street turn, then another.  I quickly lost what limited sense of direction I had and began to wonder what would happen when the directions ran out.  I wasn't really sure the trailhead would be at that intersection, just that it seemed to be near it.  Would I recognize it when I got there?  Or would I be wandering lost in an unknown neighborhood looking for something I didn't know how to identify? 

Yet, to my complete surprise, just as the GPS cheerfully announced my destination, a beautiful, clearly labeled trailhead materialized just ahead of me.  There was plenty of parking, a clean, sturdy outhouse, and informative signs.  Not sure I'd ever be able to find it again, I bookmarked it and got out to explore.

The trail was beautiful.  It's a wide paved path lined by trees and farmland, winding alternately through busy city streets and quiet residential parks and yards.  Initially, though, there were lots of crosswalks, lots of waiting for traffic lights and passing cars.  It was a little frustrating, and I felt at the time that I probably wouldn't be interested in doing the trail again, just because I'm so used to the continuous flow of the Katy trail.  It wasn't long though, before I was into the more rural sections and relaxed into the eight mile ride to the end.  On the way back, at about the fourteenth or fifteenth mile, I hit the city section again.  This time, though, the crosswalks seemed fewer and felt much more like a welcome break than an annoyance.  It was sixteen miles of honeysuckle, horses, and hidden off-shoot trails to explore on another day.  

I'm really glad I bookmarked that route.          

Eyes Up

So, today I officially became one if those people who gropes around for her glasses while wearing them on top of her head.  It's become a constant reflex theses days  push them up to read.  Push them down to see where I'm going.  So does that mean I'll be giving in to bifocals soon?

Not a chance. 

In part, because they seem completely useless.  My husband got a pair a couple of years ago, and still seems to spend an enormous amount of time taking them off to see, then having to search for them again.

But even more, I think, is the fact that I associate them somehow with my third grade reading teacher.  Mrs McDonald I think her name was, and she was a lovely women.  She didn't even wear bifocals actually,  just a pair of 1970s torquoise reading glasses that perched at the end of her nose and hung from a gold chain around her neck.

She sat at a stool in the front of the room and smiled over them to make a point as she read to us.  I really liked her. Even after she kicked me out of her reading class, very kindly by telling me I needed to be in the higher level class, she treated me as one of her own.   

I still remember the aching cold of that winter day a few months later.  Groups of us huddled in the doorway before school, hiding as best we could from the harsh Oklahoma winds, when she hurried up the steps for work, her keys jangling in her hands.  She didn't have the authority, or probably the space, to let us all in early, but she did tell her own students they could come in and wait in her room.

I hung back and huddled more tightly against the cold aging red stone.  It had been an eternity in my eight year old mind since I'd been in her class.  I didn't even expect her to remember my name.  But suddenly she was calling to me, smiling and beckoning as she held the door to bring me into the warmth as well.

So how could I not want to emulate that beautiful woman?  She seemed ancient at the time of course, but looking back I realize she was probably younger than I am now.  So with memories of her kindness  will I make an appointment,  get the glasses, take my own turn at peering at the world over the top of my lenses?

No, probably not.

Judges 16:10

Then Delilah said to Samson, "You have mocked me and told me lies!  Won't you please tell me how you can be tied up?"

                          Judges 16:10

You'd think he'd get a clue.  Four times Delilah begs him to tell her how he can be conquered.  Four times, she tries it.  And each time, she brings his greatest enemies into the house to ensure his defeat.  Did it never once occur to him that this person can't be trusted?  Did he really think when he finally gave her the whole story, that she wouldn't test him just as she'd done before?  Or did he just have such a  colossal ego that he really believed he couldn't be conquered anyway?  

Or course, the story isn't really clear on how long all of this went on.  I think I tend to read it as each episode taking place on consecutive days, but it doesn't really say that.  In fact, the last one does say that she begged him day after day, so maybe there were longer periods of time in between that allowed him to forget or rationalize what she'd done before.  

I'm just not sure I'd forget someone trying to kill me.  

I'd like to think I'm more aware, more discerning, that I wouldn't be tricked by such an obvious ploy.  It's probably not true.  Samson focused on his own goals; a beautiful woman; his own contentment; an end to the nagging; and even his own pride; ample past evidence that he could win any battle without much concern as to whether God was in it or not.  

What do I focus on every day?  My schedule, my plans, my expectations for where I'm going and the response of those I expect to meet.  How often do I really listen, really focus on surprise interruptions and unexpected requests?  Do I take the time to consider the past and analyze results, or do I just do what's most expedient to move on with my day?  

A few seconds to stop, to breathe, to focus on God.  It could have saved Samson's life, made it the blessing it was intended to be.  

What could it do for mine?

      

                     

We started the day at the farmer's market.  A brisk walk away on busy Saturday streets in May.  It wasn't quite warm and the sun teased in and out with the gathering clouds.  The market was bright with the hope and promise of spring, even though very little was actually ready yet.  We wandered through, buying only walnuts, but soaking in the bubbling joy of being outdoors.  

We never even questioned the draw of the river, ending there almost by default.  Traffic roaring across the bridge overhead was muted by the quiet shady peace of the campus park.  We walked across that bridge together one night, daring the shudder of the passing cars and deep dark power of the river below.  She walked across it alone more times than I think I want to know about, strong and brave from the day she was born, always off on an adventure.  

It's graduation day.  She'll cross that stage this afternoon, as we squint across the cavernous room, struggling to pick her out from the streaming mass of black robes.  With hugs and laughter and resolute faith, she'll march out onto the mist shrouded bridge of life.  

It had to be the most amazingly perfect day for a float ever. The sun was bright but the air slightly cool.  The rain swollen river was wider and a little faster than usual. It was just enough deeper to skim over the get out and drag it over the rocks turn. It was Friday morning peaceful, with only our family and a few other people out. No blaring music or drunken shouts, just rippling waves, turtles sunning on a protruding branch, and the splash of water in the river cave. 

Is there any such thing as a solitary daisy?  All along the road they're  clustered together, a winding path of light and cheer. They seem so delicate, with such long narrow stems, but not a single one is broken or even bent in spite of 

the remains of last week's storm struggling in the woods behind them. 

Once proud trees lie collapsed like a child's tower.  Huge, powerful roots poke uselessly into the air. Everywhere, is the evidence of the force of the wind, of the power of its destruction. Everywhere except in in these gatherings of brightly swaying joy. 

        

         

It's a powerful analogy of this first day of annual family reunion weekend. My cluster around me, renewing my strength. An infusion of belonging, of lifelong support. 

    

                         

 Well, it's one way to go camping I guess.  A big scary storm, a gigantic tree toppled over the power lines, and three days without electricity.  Electric trucks from all over the country are still lined up on every street, so I know hundreds of people must still be out.  We still don't have cable, so I have no idea how they're fairing or what levels of frustration they're reaching, but I imagine it's pretty high.  I feel a little guilty knowing that, about the fact that I actually really enjoyed myself.  The weather was mild, the hot water still ran, and fire wood was scattered like Easter eggs.  It was hard work clearing the branches and raking the debris, but it felt wonderful to be outside using my muscles after the seemingly endless winter.  I loved cooking over the fire pit and relaxing on the deck.  I loved having my family sitting with me reading and talking on the swing instead of holed up behind a computer.  

It's a stretch to compare it to camping, with running hot water and comfortable beds, but the scent of wood smoke and a cool morning breeze lull me into feeling that I am.