Where's Waldo??

One rarely plans to be eyewitness to history.  It is the dumb luck of being at the right (or wrong) place at precisely the right time.  It is the naval recruit at Pearl Harbor.  The parade goer who just wanted a glimpse of a young president on that fateful day in Texas.  It is those standing on the ground underneath the Hindenburg, the young rebels chipping away at the Berlin Wall, or the pedestrian in Manhattan on September 11^th.

It is the flashpoint of starting any old ordinary day and then finding your life forever altered in one unforeseen swoop of events.  It may be wonderful or it may be the beginnings of a nightmare.

Seven days ago I witnessed the beginning of a nightmare.

One event led to another to bring about my cataclysmic brush with destiny.  I’ll start with “why.” 

My mother, one Ardyce Miller-Templeman, (hyphenated not because she is a raging feminist, but because she remarried after the my father’s death), decided she should be ordained as a licensed minister at the tender age of seventy-one.  She is a superhero to me.  She might as well be running around in tights with a cape flapping buoyantly behind her.  She was a tad embarrassed over the age thing.  She felt it was sort of like being the oldest mother in attendance on your child’s first day of Kindergarten (oh wait, that was me on Hannah’s first day…).  I assured her that I was THRILLED that she punched Old Age in the eye and gave her a bloody nose.  Why shouldn’t people do whatever it is they want to do, at whatever age they want to do it?  When I hear the hated words, “…but I’m too old now,” I want to vomit.  Always wanted to get your teeth straightened out? Do it!!  Career switch when you are near retirement?  Go for it!  I say take your last breath with no regrets in the trunk of life. 

Back to mom.  She has been doing the coursework and going through the required internships and interviews for a couple of years now.  The ceremony of ordination is merely a culmination of all that hard work.  It is symbolic.  But it is a very big deal.  There was simply no way I was going to miss it.  There is your “why” piece of my puzzle.

OK, the “where.”  My mother lives in the beautiful state of Colorado.  I love Colorado, I truly do.  It is breathtakingly beautiful.  Its weather is temperate.  It is cowboys and rugged adventure.  It is home to my entire extended family.  If my children and husband are my breath, then my bigger family, my soul.  I love each one dearly and tenderly. 

The city of Colorado Springs was chosen for the host of this year’s district assembly and ordination service.  It was an incredibly convenient stroke of luck for me as my sister and a brother both live with their families in that very city.  Brother Ron graciously invited us to stay at his palatial home, even though it was empty for part of our stay.  We happily accepted and enjoyed the luxury and comfort of his beautiful house.  Opening the front door on our first morning at Hotel Miller, I caught my breath at the sight of Pike’s Peak directly in front of us.  Love, love, love, Colorado Springs…

“When”… we arrived on June 21^st, 2012.

Why, Where, and When, are out of the way.  Let’s turn our attention to “What.”

If I have to spell out the “What” after these hard-to-miss clues and you are an

American citizen, then you either just woke from a yearlong coma, are hung over, or live in a bomb shelter.  The “What” is the worst wildfire in Colorado Springs’ history.  I’ll save more for that later.

Here’s my story:

The day after mom’s ordination service, which was beautiful and heavy with meaning, my sister suggested we pack a picnic lunch and “head for the hills” to chillax near the Garden of the Gods, a Colorado Springs landmark and favorite tourist destination.  Sounded like a stellar plan, so we packed chicken salad sandwiches, watermelon, chips, and bottles of water.  Oh, and it was hot.  The day I mean, not the lunch.  When I say hot, I do not mean warm or nearly uncomfortable.  No, I mean HOT, as in 105 degrees, blisteringly, sweltering hot.  Burn your retinas hot.  It was hot.  Did I mention it was really hot?  Hot…

We had not gotten more than ten minutes or so from the house when all of a sudden the car’s air conditioner said, “I’m done.”  Immediately after which my sister said she had lost all power steering and that the engine was overheating.  Uh oh. 

Being the Nascar-worthy driver she is, she was able to pull over immediately into a parking lot.  We called the guys who had piled into “the guy” vehicle (I’m sure they were singing at top-voice volume to oldies and giggling just like we were).  They spun around on a dime and our gallant rescuers pulled up beside us.  “I’ll bet it’s a belt,” I predicted as they popped the hood.  Within moments Dr. Auto Mechanic (my husband) was pulling out shredded pieces of serpentine belt.  I smiled smugly.

As we waited for them to purchase a new one and round up the proper tools, we girls sipped ice water from the tiny coffee shack sitting in the parking lot.  As the very nice attendant handed us our water, he mentioned casually, “Have you seen the fire?”  Fire?  He pointed ahead and to the right.  “Started about two hours ago.”  Well, paint me yeller and call me chicken...  Sure enough, there was indeed evidence of fire off in the hills.  Hot windy day, lack of rain and winter snowpack had left the brush ripe for tinder…  conditions were perfect for a wildfire.  No, this can’t be good.  But the column of smoke in front of us was fairly small, so we weren’t too alarmed yet.  We were sure firefighters were already fighting the good fight and would soon have it under control.  We found a tiny patch of shade under an immature tree and tried vainly to prevent our melting into puddles of sweat.  Our daughters sought shelter in a Walgreens.  Kim and I took advantage of the relative quiet to do some catching up.

In short order, the guys were back and we were on our way again, my niece Lauren in the back seat playing DJ with her iPod, and “the girl car” was rockin’ once more.  My brother, Ron, broke into our Karaoke Heaven to text to us some 411 on the fire.  It had indeed started just when our ice water savior had said it had and had consumed 150 acres.  My farmer brain went into action trying to visualize that amount of land.  One hundred and fifty acres would be roughly a fourth of our farm.  Well, that didn’t seem too catastrophic.  Field fires happen in my neck of the woods every summer.  Even our tiny rural fire departments are able to manage those.  Should be a piece of cake for these city-slicker firefighters.

We wove our way into the Red Rocks Park, parked and carried our yummy lunch to a picnic table.  Wow, it was hot!  A pretty poor excuse for shade here as well.  We were considerably closer to the fire now and had a front row seat to its condition.  It was growing at an alarming rate.  We finished our food and while the rest tried to prevent their brains from boiling in its own fluid, my sister and brother and I climbed a cliff to get a better view of the fire.  The fire had an official name now.  Whoever it is that has the dubious honor of naming such monsters had unimaginatively dubbed it the Waldo Canyon Fire.  Even an untrained fire-namer like myself could have come up with THAT.

We climbed high enough (not an easy feat in flip flops) to see over the ridge that partially obstructed our view.  Garden of the Gods rose majestically to our hard right and Waldo roared just left of it.  At times the smoke shifted just enough that we could even see bright orange flames licking at the brush.  I snapped about 10,000 pictures (I was born for digital photography), and we made our way back down the cliff without breaking anything of a human bone nature.  I did manage to brush my thumb against a cactus and pulled a few souvenirs out as a result.  Thankfully that was the extent of my flip-flop-wearing, cliff-climbing injuries.

It was obvious that this thing was nowhere near containment.  We were watching it spread uncontrollably before our very eyes.  The local news was reporting that evacuations had begun and roads were being closed.  Time to get out of Dodge.

As we climbed back into our Gender Mobiles, my brother and sister and I looked at each other with the same genius thought, “Let’s get closer to the fire!!”  No one has ever accused us of being smart enough to take the prudent path.  There were some in the Donner Party who chose to return back to home base rather than run to danger (sissies), and climbed into the Safe Mobile.  The rest of us headed the wrong direction back into the path of the fire to see what we could see until either we could go no further or someone told us we had to turn around.  Holy cow, I love adventure!!  Our one mistake was taking our mother along.  Drat that life giving, care taking instinct!  We should have forced her into the Safety Mobile, much like securing a seat on one of the Titanic’s lifeboats. 

As we drove along HWY 24, we were awed and dumbstruck by how the situation had grown somber.  There were emergency vehicles and personnel literally everywhere.  We passed multiple staging areas where fleets of utility trucks or other services were clustered and waiting for directions.  We were now witnessing earnest evacuations.  Cars and vans filled with worried faces and precious belongings streamed in the opposite direction.  We were swimming against a current of fear and panic. 

My camera could barely catch a breath.  With window down, I tried to capture as much of the moment as my obstructed view could manage.  We were fairly far up the mountain when my brother’s next text made me laugh.  His car was carrying our mother.  The text read, “Captain Dangerous thinks we should turn around.”  Well, that was that.  We may be middle-aged adults, but mom still rules the roost.

We found a turn-around spot and pulled over next to an ambulance.  There were others also lining the shoulder of the road – rubberneckers like us – gazing in awe and disbelief at a force so powerful minute mankind could only slay it with the help of an army of hundreds and overhead planes with bellies full of red poison.  My sister asked my daughter to take our picture with the belching black cloud as our backdrop.  A motorist smart enough to be speeding AWAY from the madness honked and gave us the finger.  “We deserved it,” I said matter-of-factly.  That poor man was probably a fresh evacuee and here we stood all googley-eyed like it was some treasure hunt.  Not that I need to justify my actions to our obscene gesture friend or you, for that matter, but for the record, the photo was for the record.  Our goal was not to have a salacious moment at the expense of others, but to record history.  There were many who grabbed cameras after the bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Historians are glad they did. 

My brother called me to a second story window before retiring for the night.  “Look to the right,” was all he said.  I was shocked and a little spooked to see bright red flames lapping at the hillside not far from the spot where we stood.  It was surreal.  Of course I grabbed my ever-present camera, but chose to not post the photos on Facebook.  My sister-in-law, Mel, was away visiting her mother in Vermont and I did not want to give her unnecessary anxiety more than she must have surely already had.  The pictures were left on my computer, saved for another time.

We awoke to the ominous news on that Sunday morning that the firefighting heroes had achieved zero containment.  It was too big.  The conditions were too dry.  The wind was too strong and erratic.  The Monster was gaining strength and power.  The status of the Waldo Canyon Fire had changed.  Strategic control was being handed over to a national team that would spearhead all firefighting efforts.  And just like that, Colorado’s wildfires became the number one firefighting priority in the nation.

I snapped a shot before leaving the parking lot of church that morning.  The sky to the west was completely filled with smoke.  Some at church reported waking to ash on their lawn, others were already displaced individuals whose fate was yet to be written.  It was a somber day of gathering in the safe shelter of common faith.

The winds pushed east throughout the day, causing smoky haze to settle heavily on the city, like snow on those same majestic Rockies.  Its acrid smell filled our noses and stung eyes and caused breathing difficulties for many.  The brilliant afternoon sun struggled to shine through the amber curtain.

Monday found a shift in the wind, which cleared the city of smoke, but only intensified the out-of-control fire.  We listened with sinking hearts as more and more outlying areas were being forced to evacuate.  Instructions for leaving homes were posted in all the local media outlets.  The “Five P’s” were stressed:  people, photos, prescriptions, pets, and personal records.  Grab and go.  That was the urgent message. 

Temperatures soared into the 100’s for the umpteenth consecutive day.  I had graduate coursework due and spent the morning pounding away at my laptop.  We met up with my sister and her family for an early supper and a stroll through Manitou Springs, an area that had been originally evacuated and then allowed to be reinhabited.  The night felt delightfully cool, even though the thermometer in the car read 98 degrees.  It’s always about perspective, isn’t it?

We walked through the beautiful, if not touristy, main street of Manitou Springs and enjoyed popping into quaint shops and munching on funnel cakes.  I did not realize that there was an actual “spring” and was amazed at the fizzy nature of its famous waters.  Ever the teacher, I filled a water bottle with the stuff for my students to taste come fall.  As we made our way back to the car, there was a sudden flurry of activity.  Looking in the direction of the excitement, we learned the reason for it.  The fire had jumped the ridge and was now within just a few miles of the town.  It had happened so suddenly that even the local shop owners were snapping pictures.  It seemed there was no place to go to get away from the madness.

We left the next morning.  I climbed into our van with a heavy heart.  The people I love were left to deal with this mess.  I was headed home to clear skies and green foliage.  They were still living a nightmare.  I had no idea as we drove north, away from pieces of my heart, that their nightmare was very soon going to intensify and become a living hell. 

We stopped for a quick lunch with our son, Ryan, a dental student in Denver, and then to Greeley, Colorado for the night with another sibling, Kevin, and his darling family.  Shellie, my sweet sister-in-law, grew up in Colorado Springs.  She had lived only in that city until they accepted a call to pastor a church in Greeley.  She loves her home, her new city, and her church, but her heart will always beat for the Springs. 

While preparing our dinner that night, she had local coverage streaming live through her mobile device.  I heard her gasp, her hand involuntarily flying to her mouth.  Tears streamed down her face and she ran suddenly to her bedroom, sobbing the entire way.  My brother, tears filling his own eyes, said quietly, “The Flying W ranch has just burned to the ground.  Our first home is probably next.”  “Go to your wife,” I urged him.  I stood next to the speaker and listened to the choked voices of the local newscaster as they apologized for being so unprofessional, but mourned aloud the loss of such a beloved Colorado Spring landmark.  It took them several minutes to gain composure.  Their grief was palpable.

In the few hours since we had left that city, the fire had turned its steely, red eyes onto residential neighborhoods and set its sights for the Air Force Academy, Garden of the Gods, and other beloved, well-known places.  My brain refused to absorb the breadth of such catastrophe.  The evacuation numbers now stood at 32,000 and hundreds of homes were threatened.  Dear God, it’s so hot.  Where will all those people go?

The Beast was unquenchable.  It would not be satiated until it had gorged itself on 346 residential homes, and drank the blood of two innocent people.  Finally, it staggered back in a drunken stupor and headed back toward the hills, leaving sorrow, homelessness, and lives forever altered in its terrible wake.

I later saw aerial images of the destroyed neighborhoods and felt my stomach drop.  It was easy to make out roads that led into subdivisions and cul-de-sacs, but I struggled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing beyond that.  You would expect to find some structures partially burned, with timbers still hanging or possibly a wall here and there left standing.  There was nothing, save for giant piles of ash.  Pile after pile of pure ash.  Ghostly, haunting images seared into memory.

As we pulled onto the final stretch of road that would lead us to our beautiful home and farm, I found myself seeing the familiar with new eyes.  I was so grateful for blue skies with no smoke, and lush green grass.  It looked like Eden to me.  I gulped in the serenity and said another prayer for those in chaos.

I was there when it started.  I am not happy about that.  But for whatever reason, I was eyewitness to an event that will be part of Colorado history books for many years to come.  Why?  I have no answers.  It was the dumb luck of being in the right (or wrong) place at precisely the right time.  Or was it?  In the life of a follower of Christ, nothing is happenstance.  If there was a divine purpose, I do not know it yet, nor may I ever.  But I was there.  It is not my home.  There is no connection to me other than cradling my loved ones.  And yet… I am forever altered by it.  I cannot fully understand the difficult road ahead for those I left behind.

God help us all…

Dire warning on the highway

    

 

The first ominous sign of things to come

We watch it grow and gain momentum at an alarming rate

The majestic Garden of the Gods looked a peaceful haven during our picnic

The sun trying to penetrate the smoky haze

A family photo belies the fire burning just behind us

Manitou Springs in the shadow of the Waldo Canyon fire

Father's Day and the Three Stooges

Today is Father’s Day.  My own father passed away seventeen years ago.  I miss him.  The father of my children, my husband of twenty-nine years (tomorrow is our anniversary), is the object of my celebratory mood today.  Four children is a whale-of-a-lot of kids to clothe, feed, love, attend sporting events and concerts for, and meet every other imaginable need.  He has done it all with uncomplaining steadfastness. 

You should know that when it comes to celebrations, I am Party Central.  I feel that the common day should be an excuse for uncommon festivities.  An actual holiday?? Holy cow – look out!!  Mr. Dahl, however, is the polar opposite.  There are no extraordinary days on his calendar.  Each day is just that – a day.  Oh, he takes me out for my birthday, and chooses sweet gifts for Christmas, but he does these things because he knows they are important to me.  When it comes to reciprocating for his special days, all he ever wants is to NOT have a big deal made over him.  He is so not into splashy extravagance.

So when I asked him what he would like for Father’s Day, I knew before he responded what his answer would be.  Nothing.  Zero.  Nada.  A big goose egg… I don’t know why I continue to ask year after year.

The kids ask me (as they do every year), “What does dad want for Father’s Day (or birthday, or Christmas)?”  Well, I’ll be dogged if I know.  I can read his thoughts from fifty paces, but I have no clue as what little gadget or trinket might be meaningful to him.  I have come to the conclusion that he is truly the most contented man I have ever known.  He does not feel he wants or needs anything of a material nature.  His favorite line used to be, “I could new socks or underwear.”  OK, then socks and underwear it is.  But he hoards them like the Great Tribulation is imminent, so when the point came that he could barely close his dresser drawers due to multiple unopened packages of J.C. Penney socks and underwear, we said “enough already,” and went back to the drawing board. 

Whatever my husband lacks in gift list-making skills, I more than make up for.  I generally hand my loved ones a scroll with a wide range of price options and say, “I have clustered them according to priority and circled my top three choices for your convenience.”  Gift giving for mom is easier than falling off a ladder, but dad… well, dad provides a stiff challenge.

Two major events occurred this weekend that were the Transit of Venus of Father’s Day good fortune.  The first was an invitation from John’s sister to join them for a Father’s day cookout at their house.  The second was the arrival in the daily mail of the work schedule for the Wing Theater.  Guess which family got the luck of the draw for Father’s Day weekend??

Now, to my city folk readers, you may be a tad confused about what it means to “work the theater.”  If you have never visited the northern prairie of America, then I need to provide a few very important foundational facts here.  North Dakota is a big state in landmass.  We possess over 70,000 square miles AND YET, we are the third LEAST populated state in the nation, with just under 700,000 in total population.  To break those numbers down for the average layman:  Big state -- lots of empty acres.  What this means in terms of “things to do on a Saturday night,” is… the average farmer has to get in the ‘ole Ford pickup and drive ‘fer a spell to get anywhere.   

Small towns have made stabs at keeping entertainment local.  Most every little settlement has a bar, this is a given.  Beyond liquid entertainment, a few towns have successfully (or not) tried to provide local fun.  Many try to keep the doors open to bowling alleys.  In years past, roller rinks were quite popular.  Somehow, my little enclave of Wing has managed to keep its theater going, despite declining population.  There are a few solid reasons for this “success” story. 

For one thing, the décor hasn’t been updated since (and this is just a wild stab in the dark based on the orange color theme) sometime in the mid-70’s.  Industrial low-pile carpet lines the top half of the sidewalls (for acoustic purposes, I am sure).  Dotted along these carpet-lined walls are bare, orange light bulbs sticking out for dim lighting when the overhead lights go out at the beginning of the movie.  Big city THEE-aters have fancy lighting on the plushly carpeted steps.  We moved ours up – a concept that will catch on everywhere, I have no doubt.  It also helps with bug-infestation as the outer doors are generally propped open for the duration of a summer movie due to the smoking of the popcorn popper.

Another reason the Wing Theater keeps its Hollywood head above water, is that there are no paid employees.  Generally, a list is drawn up at the beginning of the movie “season” (April through October), and is comprised of local families that take turns running the theater for their given weekend.  Running the theater means that you unlock the doors and prop them open with the official door-propping rock that has probably been on the stoop since the Civil War.  You then get the popcorn popper heating up (it takes a few minutes), open the record-keeping notebook up where is recorded the beginning and ending ticket numbers AND the winners of the free ticket draw, then sell tickets and concessions for the duration of the movie.  When the movie ends, there is cleanup to be done, and this is really the worst part of the effort.  Sticky, spilled soda and popcorn are not a good clean-up combination.  The redeeming feature of the theater is, it still possesses the hardwood floors from when it was also the town gymnasium, which makes clean-up infinitely easier.

I am mistaken.  There is one paid employee.  The theater association hires a projectionist every season.  This is a rather plum job for the lucky high school kid that lands it every year.  There are almost no job opportunities in our fair town, so to find one is awesome, PLUS there is little actual work involved, PLUS you get to watch the movie and eat concessions for free every weekend all summer long.  Win, win, and win!!

When the volunteer list first arrived in our mailbox, I was a little disappointed that we were scheduled for Father’s Day weekend.  But John wasn’t.  No sir.  He is so incredibly unconcerned about those sorts of things.  He is happy to take his turn and it matters little what days that happens on.  OK, if he’s cool with it, I guess I am too.  The movie for our weekend?  The Three Stooges.  As one Facebook “friend” put it, “Yeah, but what’s the movie??” 

So the day was set in stone – church in the morning, complete with hot brunch and the movie, “Courageous” (which I highly recommend for every male on the face of the earth), a cookout for the entire Dahl extended family at my sister and brother-in-law’s house, then off to the theater for the evening. 

So here’s how the responsibilities were divided:  John always mans the popper (I don’t know why, it is just how it is), Hannah took over working the fountain drink machine and taking concession money, and me?  I am the face of ticket sales.  Yes, that’s right.  When they come in off the street, I am the one to greet them, hand out tickets, take their money, make small talk, and this year, wish the guys “Happy Father’s Day.”  It is serious and important work.  It also gave me the opportunity to see my Little Darlings from the school year as they filtered through the door.  My, oh my, how they have grown!  Smiling tanned faces would pop up at the window and well, I just had to come around the corner and exclaim over their shooting up like corn in the field and give a quick hug.  I had not realized how much I miss them!

All went well in the Sales Department on the first night of the movie.  But then I watched it.  The movie, I mean.  Have you seen this movie?  Holy cow, it is TERRIBLE.  I never was a huge Three Stooges fan anyway, and I am not crazy about slapstick humor by and large, but this one…. Well, there are just no words.  Easily in the top three of worst movies I have ever seen.  Easily!! 

On Night Two, it was a crisis of conscience to take the poor suckers’ money.  I wanted to say, “Just head over to the concessions window, buy some popcorn and go back home.  If you hurry you can catch Ice Road Truckers on the History Channel.”  But I didn’t.  I kept my mouth shut and smiled and encouraged them to “enjoy the show!”  I really did not want to get transferred to the Housekeeping Department.  I like Sales.  I’d like to stay, thank you very much. 

Good thing too.  I saw on the official Wing Theater Facebook page that this weekend broke the record for seasonal ticket AND concession sales.  Apparently there are more Three Stooges fans than I had realized and slapstick makes them really hungry and thirsty.  Hooray!  The Wing Theater survives for a while longer!!

So Happy Father’s Day to the man who made me a mother and has faithfully shared this parenting journey with me.  I love it that you are content with the gifts of shared family time and sharing the box office of a dusty little theater in the middle of nowhere on Father’s Day.  It says buckets about the sort of man you are and how you are able to celebrate the Uncommon Day in a common fashion.  Life is pleasant and easy because you make it those things for your family every day.

I love you, John Dahl.  Happy Father’s Day…

I love the false-front buildings in this town -- so frontier!!

The Redeemer

(Please be forewarned that this post is unashamedly spiritual.  I make no apology.)

I love the Discovery Channel -- interesting shows and interesting topics.  Hubby had the kitchen television on one night last week and the show featured ships on the Bering Sea in the dead of winter.  Deadly Seas the show is called.  I was half-watching, half-interested, until the story of an old battered ship began to be told.  Suddenly I was absorbed.  I set my oven mitts down and plunked my body into a chair at the island. 

This ship is a salvage ship.  Its mission is not to salvage gold or treasure on the floor of the ocean.  No, its mission is to salvage other ships.  As the name of the show indicates, making a living off the Bering Sea is dangerous, potentially fatal business.  Many ships every year find themselves in trouble and sink or become stranded on some desolate island or shoal.  The boat’s owners would like these stranded vessels recovered, of course. 

This is where our hero ship comes into play. 

The name of the ship is The Redeemer.  It is not a very pretty ship.  It is a big, creaking vessel with rusty spots on its hull.  But it gets the job done and delivers stranded vessels back to grateful owners.

The captain of The Redeemer is a story within the story.  In short, unemotional bursts he told the story of being in high school and already working on the ships of the Bering Sea.  He told of having the bad fortune of being on a ship with his brother the night their vessel sank into the depths of the frigid waters.  The ship sank keel-first and, unbelievably, the only survivors that terrible night were this man and his brother.  As the ship disappeared into liquid blackness they found a chunk of something floating in the water and climbed onto it.  They were in the water seven nightmarish hours until help arrived.  They both lived to tell the tale and return to the sea in spite of its callous treatment of them.

The irony and parallels to my spiritual beliefs were obvious.  I do not know what you believe about God or things of a spiritual nature.  You are free to believe whatever it is you like or believe to be true.  I hope whatever it is that anchors your soul brings you deep joy and, ultimately, eternal life.

This is what I believe…

I believe that there is a God (just one), who created the heavens and the earth in seven literal days and nights.  Many theologians question that and science outright dismisses it, but the book of Genesis says seven days, so that is where I land with it all.  My God is all-powerful.  If he set his mind to create an entire universe in a week, then I believe he could and did do it.  He is not bound by the laws of nature, (countless bible examples and stories affirm this), nor is he limited by time and space.  I believe he SPOKE our world, and the orbs that spin around us, into being.  I believe he is the personification of creative artist.  He is also scientist, engineer, and comedian. 

I believe that this fresh, new, breathtakingly beautiful Earth was filled with animals and exotic creatures.  But God’s crowning achievement – his encore and piece de resistance – was the creation of Man.  Genesis says that God himself, “breathed into man the breath of life.”  Think about that for a moment and let that sink into your brain.  The very breath of God brought a man made of simple clay to life.  Suddenly that man has blood pulsing through his veins, causing his heart to pump and his brain to crackle to life and synapses to fire and his senses to come alive.  And God, the Creator, watched it all and said right out loud, “it is good.”  In modern vernacular, he might have said, “…now that ROCKS!” 

I also believe that the world God created and filled with good things had an enemy who had a vendetta against God (we know this enemy as Satan).  He was one of the good guys originally.  He was beautiful to look at and in charge of the music of Heaven, but he got a little too big for his britches and decided he wanted God’s job.  God said, “sorry, but that job is taken” and showed The Devil the door.  We do not know how many eons ago this all occurred, but we do know from Scripture that there has been bad blood between the two ever since.

Now Satan saw his perfect opportunity to wreak some havoc on God’s Masterpiece, and so he appeared to the very first man and woman, Adam and Eve, and convinced them to blatantly oppose God, which they did (and it didn’t take much convincing, I am sad to say).  And just like that, Satan is a player in God’s perfect world.  Now he’s got some power and authority to do some damage in this New World.

So now God has a problem.  A perfect world and perfect people, who are no longer perfect.   Hmmm… what to do, what to do…Sin has occurred and a penalty must be paid.  You may think it unfair or petty of God to dwell on such minor things.  I certainly cannot explain it all.  I am finite and limited, just like you.  But here is how I understand it and how my small brain can wrap around it. 

I really love the movie, National Treasure.  You know the one.  Nicholas Cage comes from a long line of treasure hunters who seek the Grand Daddy of all treasures, which is a compilation of treasures collected down through history.  He finds it, (it wouldn’t be much of a movie if he hadn’t), and there is a line after the discovery that is pertinent here.  Nicholas Cage’s character says to the FBI agent who has been hunting him down, “I would really love to not go to jail.”  To which the FBI agent replies, “SOMEBODY has to go to jail.”  Laws had been broken, penalties had to be paid.  This is how true justice works.  To ignore laws and their penalties is to give Chaos free reign.

And that helps me understand God’s nature.  He is NOT a “god of justice.”  No, that is too ambivalent.  It allows for whims and moods where justice is concerned.  No indeed.  God does not simply dispense justice, God IS justice.  It is so woven into his nature, that he is incapable of turning a blind eye to sin and transgression.

It sounds incredibly harsh, doesn’t it?  I agree.  I would be disconsolate if I felt that God’s nature began and ended with justice.  God is indeed justice.  But God is also Love.  Real love.  Not sappy, conditional, sentimental love, but true love.  The gold standard of love.  The genuine article.

So God sees his new creation (man) messing up right out of the gate.  Here’s the part that make me smile…

God already had a plan. 

Justice demanded action and atonement.  Love said, “I’ll find a way…” 

God knew it would require a perfect sacrifice.  There was just one that fulfilled all the requirements.  One perfect, dearly loved sacrifice.  God’s very own Son, Jesus Christ. 

“For God so loved the world, that he gave His One and Only Son, Jesus Christ, to be the Savior of the World, that whoever believes in Him will not perish, but have everlasting life.”  John 3:16

Jesus came to God’s Earth as a baby, grew up in a normal, natural fashion, turned his Father’s world on its ear with his teachings and miracles, then was crucified in a barbaric way.  When Jesus’ blood drained from his perfect body (perfect meaning without sin), and his perfect soul left that body, God and Satan both knew that Justice had been served.  The price had been paid.  Sin was atoned for.  Satan was livid.  God was heartbroken, but satisfied.

This is where it all pertains to you and me.

Because God loves us so extravagantly, he sent The Redeemer to salvage stranded, broken, shipwrecked mankind.  No one cares more than the owner.  There is no price too great or sacrifice too large for The One who created each vessel.  Recovery at all costs.

And so, dear friend…

I may or may not know you personally.  This blog reaches people in countries and continents to which I have never been.  I do not know your plight or what personal struggles you face today.  But I do know that God sees you, with your fading hopes and battle with the sea.  You may be fighting to stay afloat and keep your head above frigid waters.  Like the captain of The Redeemer, you are clinging to some flimsy piece of refuse with just enough buoyancy to keep you afloat for a while longer.  You can feel your energy slipping away, and with it, any hope of rescue. 

But there is a vessel chugging your way, with the name Redeemer painted on its beautiful side.  It brings with it Hope and Salvation.  You must only wait for its arrival and then warmth and safety will be yours again.

My bible says that all we must do to claim these priceless treasures is to BELIEVE… believe that Jesus Christ is truly God’s very own son, and believe that He died for you.  Believe that his sacrifice paid the price for your sins once and for all.  Believe, then own up to your shortcomings, failures, and sins.  Confess these things to your Rescuer.  He will freely forgive.

Believing is maybe the easy part, for then we must take ourselves off of that rocky shoal and follow Christ, wherever He may lead us.  But this I promise, to do so brings an everlasting joy that is unparalleled.  He will guide you safely through all the dangerous, choppy waters of this perilous journey we are on and into the snug harbor of Everlasting Life.

This is what I believe… 

I believe it because The Redeemer rescued me.  I was stranded and broken.  But my Creator loved me enough to come for me.  Through Deadly Seas and perilous elements He sought me out.

I will follow Him anywhere…