Sidewalks

Posted on May 13, 2025 by Mark

Teckla and I walk a lot. We walk on the sidewalks and on the hiking trails in the local parks. Although falling is a risk for people with dementia, Teckla has almost never fallen when hiking off the paved trails. Over rocks and roots she has proved sure-footed. Yesterday, the trail we hiked was wet and especially slippery under the canopy of oak and hickory. Teckla’s left foot slid down a wet rock, but she kept the right one anchored on the trail. With a little help, she pulled herself up.

Unexpectedly, we have found the sidewalks far more treacherous. Many years ago while visiting Dylan and Vanessa in Portland, Teckla tripped on the sidewalk along Burnside Street. She lunged and stumbled forward about twenty yards, desperately trying to get her legs under her. Finally, she fell hard and rolled into the street. It was terrible, but she had no serious injuries—except our jokes about being a Burnside bum. 

But as we age, both Teckla and I must be wary. The sidewalks will be perfectly clear sailing for blocks, but suddenly a root will have pushed up the cement or one section will have sunk down into the clay. Our walking is the opposite of powerwalking; we saunter along without lifting our feet very high. Next thing we know, we are tripping over the uneven cement and staggering to stay on our feet.

Unlike the trails, the sidewalks allow us to walk side by side, so we hold hands. Time after time, we have steadied each other. Occasionally, we trip at the same place and time, holding each other tightly as we stumble forward and balance each other.

Christian writers have long warned against the dangers of the easy path. We carefully pick our way through the forest trails along the river edges. However, it is easy to cruise down the sidewalk, lulled to near sleep by the ease of the way. But it is here, on the sidewalk, where we most need to hold each other hands and occasionally call out warnings about broken cement.

Believers need to seek fellowship not on just the difficult trails and during difficult times. We need help seeing the things that trip us up when everything is rolling along just fine. In the glare of the Kansas sun it is hard to see raised edges of the cement, but together we can stumble without falling.  

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Washed Ashore in Kansas

Posted on April 25, 2025 by Mark

It is odd to feel washed ashore this far from any ocean. But Peter’s death, Teckla’s dementia, and the burning of our house in Myrtle Point have left me dazed and disoriented—like Robinson Crusoe after the wreck of his ship. We have been here awhile but are still living out of boxes.

We were about to sell the house in Myrtle Point, so the fire may wreck us financially. Even though Robinson Crusoe made trip after trip to the wreck on the rocks of the bay, he was still dismayed when a second storm removed every trace of the ship. I feel that way about the house that was my home as a boy and where Teckla and I raised our boys. 

Although not a tropical island, the climate of Kansas takes some getting used to after 30 years in Oregon. The dusty winds, hard rain, bitterly cold winters, and sizzling summer days are different. We have gone from high surf warnings to tornado warnings.

Like Crusoe on his island, Teckla and I have been exploring the place we have landed. We have walked most of the town, discovering the stores, parks, and restaurants. We have made larger and larger circles around Gardner and hiked the trails at nearby parks. We are learning the flowers and trees each season brings. We are discovering places that nourish our souls with their beauty.

Like Crusoe, we have a lot of stuff that survived the wreck. If all goes well, we will be getting rid of even more stuff when we buy a small townhouse nearby. I once gave a talk about Robinson Crusoe being one of the first post-apocalyptic novels. My focus was on how loss can crystallize our values and help us understand what matters. As we sort and discard things, we are forced to figure out what will be of use in this new place. The things I need here surprise me.

Hymnal: Every morning Teckla and I sing three or four hymns together. Turns out that the melodies are forever etched into our memories—so we can sing a cappella. Sometimes the hymns bring back the old-wood smell of pews or the fragrance of the lilacs that bloomed at the doorway of the church in Milton-Freewater. They are the sounds of sabbath and rest. Teckla and I are made steadfast by the structure of the hymns: thanks for salvation, praise for God’s power to keep us, hope for our resurrection and glory.

Poetry: Increasingly, it seems that the most important things need to be said with sound, image, and metaphor; words striking words for a spark of truth. It is perhaps odd to find poetry in my survival kit. But like Crusoe’s spy-glass, poetry helps me see the world. I see a world alive with beauty and ripe with meaning.

My pearwood recorder: I bought this little flute at a music store on 12th Street in Nampa, Idaho when I was in college. I never, and still haven’t, mastered it well enough to play for others, but I can play tunes on it. I like the haunting beauty of its voice—coming from wood seasoned with the years. Against the depression that lurks in the shadows of old age, “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee” is a dagger.

The hugs of grandchildren: I have never been much of a hugger, but the hugs from grandkids have been like finding an orchard on a deserted island. Their hugs nourish my soul. Hugging them is like hugging hope itself.

Holding hands: Teckla and walk almost every day. In the neighborhood, we hold hands to keep one another from tripping over uneven or broken sidewalks. Teckla and I first held hands while praying together in college. We are still holding on, still praying. Few pleasures are simpler or sweeter.

The Sacraments: The Eucharist, or Lord’s Supper has been a sustaining help and fountain of grace. In all this wreckage, especially my Myrtle Point home burning, the sacraments remind me of my true home—a home beyond tragedy and cruel ironies. The sacraments, in the midst of so much loss, anchor me in the unchanging love of God. Jesus is all.

Ragtag brothers and sisters in Christ: Although I miss the beauty of Oregon’s mountains, streams, and beaches, I miss even more the church family who surrounded us with so much love and help. Our treasure in Myrtle Point was not the house that burned; it was the faithful love that Teckla and I experienced in the community of believers. 

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A Left and a Right

Posted on March 31, 2025 by Mark

During prayer today a lament erupted in my heart. I cried out, “God save the children. Send a revival of hope, joy, and love into the hearts of the young. Jesus, come.”

I had been praying by name for my friend’s children who have wandered from faith in Jesus. The list was way too long. Researchers and polls confirm that there has been a mighty exodus of the young from evangelical churches. This exodus has broken the hearts of many Christian parents and left them asking what they did wrong or should have done differently.

Although I think there is no single answer or solution, I do think doing spiritual warfare with both hands helps. Evangelical churches often present the Christian faith in therapeutic terms—a relationship with God that will fix everything. At times I saw this in my sons when they complained, “I prayed but it didn’t work.” Sometimes “prayed” was replaced with “obeyed.” They had heard the standard good testimony of those who obeyed and prayed, and then saw God move in wonderful ways.

Sometimes these “good testimonies” come from celebrity Christians who have seen amazing success as athletes or musicians. When following Jesus doesn’t bring the same kind of success, many young people wander away. Some who stay, stay miserable, doubting God’s love and feeling unworthy of God’s help. They “tried God and discovered He doesn’t work.”

All this is the result of one-handed spiritual warfare that only emphasizes the blessings of faith. The left-hand of spiritual warfare is realism and honesty our lives. The left hand is the honesty and endurance of Job when everything goes wrong, when God is silent, and friendship with God has disappeared. The left hand is the cry of the Psalmists, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me? How long will you hide your face from me?” Or “Why do you stand far off, O Lord? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”

We see this one-two punch again and again in the Psalms. The Psalm that begins with honesty about God’s absence, ends:

But I have trusted in They lovingkindness; My heart shall rejoice in Thy salvation. I will sing to the Lord because He has dealt bountifully with me.(Psalm 13:5-6)

Too often we have built a faith only on the last part of these Psalms; a faith that says nothing about the strength of our enemies, the depth of our grief, or the absence of God in our time of trouble.

More youth pastors need to tell the story of Job. Unfortunately, the church often plays the role of Job’s friends and leaves kids wondering what they have done wrong to miss out on the success others have. And of course, there are enough defiling things in our culture for teens to blame themselves for their failure to walk in joy and triumph all the time. Living in condemnation is exhausting and joyless. Despite the proclamation of salvation by grace from the pulpit, many young people live in condemnation, believing Job’s friends and hating themselves.

Some might think Job and the Psalmists are too “old covenant” to be relevant. We should, however, consider the context of Paul’s mention of weapons of righteousness for the right hand and the left in II Corinthians 6: –10. The whole epistle rests upon the paradox of God’s power perfected in weakness.  In chapter six, Paul describes his ministry as including afflictions, hardships, tumults, labors, distress, sleeplessness, hunger, dishonor, sorrow, and poverty. But it also includes purity, kindness, patience, the Holy Spirit, truth, and the power of God. In chapter seven he says that in Macedonia he was “afflicted on every side; conflicts without, fears within” (v. 6). Paul is honest about his afflictions and his fears.

As a teacher, I found young people open to a faith that is honest about the struggle to believe. Honesty adds power and reality to our testimony that “I know that my Redeemer lives.” Honesty about not always experiencing the warm embrace of God makes the decision to praise God heroic and noble—not a way to manipulate God.

Leaving behind the “good testimony” narrative and transactional relationship with God is liberating. We can stop keeping a record of what we did for God and what God must now do for us. I think many young people are hungry for costly discipleship that takes up the cross. In this age of the “selfie”, leaving self behind sets us free to focus on Jesus and those who need His love. The cure for self-love and self-loathing is self-forgetfulness.

Endurance in the face of hardship, unanswered prayers, and a hostile culture is not popular and doesn’t sell well. Faithful perseverance is the most powerful weapon we have against all the scandal and betrayal in the church. In all the shifting sands of our culture, those who remain faithful are a rock of hope and truth. We need to value faithfulness and humility in leaders more than gifting and charisma.

Fighting with both hands means having the testimony of those thrown into the fiery furnace:

“Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire, and He will deliver us out of your hand, O King, but if not, let it be known to you, O king, that we are not going to serve your gods or worship the golden image you have set up.” (Daniel 3:17-18)

We must embrace both the testimony of deliverance and the testimony of faithfulness in the fire.

God works—but not for us. In both hardship and deliverance, endurance and miracle, God is working to make us like his Son, Jesus who prayed, “Father, if thou art willing, remove this cup from me, yet not My will, but Thine be done” (Luke 22:42).

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The Unbroken Circles of Love and Grace

Posted on March 22, 2025 by Mark

A blessing of age is being able to see how life, love, and grace moves in great circles. I noticed this one blustery day on the beach with my mom who was in her nineties. I had reached around her from behind to help her zip up her coat. I came to the front, adjusted her hood, and kissed her on the forehead. We had come full circle.

When Teckla and I lived in Kansas City, we took in a couple who found themselves homeless. Don explained that he was worked in “collections” for a motorcycle gang. Lorae, his wife, had suffered great trauma and heartbreak. Her teenage daughter was in rehab. Lorae had serious back problems from a car accident that took the lives of two of her children. After one night in our basement Don disappeared. Lorae was left broken spiritually, emotionally, and financially. It turned out later that Don had a second wife in Minnesota and had run up huge telephone bills that Lorae had no way to pay. Her life was so terrible that Teckla used “Lorae” as shorthand for any situation that was really bad and then got worse.

For a couple years, Teckla drove Lorae everywhere: doctors, social workers, stores, and church. Teckla was content to give freely as long as we could. I impatiently looked for solutions. After we moved from Kansas City back to Oregon, we lost track of Lorae. Years later we were contacted by her nephew on social media. He sent a friend request and asked if we were the Mark and Teckla that had done so much for his Aunt Lorae. He thanked us and explained that Lorae had died a Christian and never forgotten our love and kindness.

This reminder came at a good time because Teckla and I were now in Lorae’s place. Our son, Peter, was in and out of ICUs with his brittle diabetes, and Teckla had just been diagnosed with cancer in both breasts. We were living paycheck to paycheck. After surgery, Teckla needed to come to Eugene for four weeks of radiation treatments. I was still teaching at the college. Teckla and I were the legal guardian of Ari, Peter’s son. Everything seemed impossible until our friend Rosalie offered to drive Teckla wherever she needed to go—even the two and half hours to Eugene and back five days a week for four weeks. Others watched Ari when both Teckla and I needed to go to Eugene. In the midst of “our Lorae”, we had come full circle and were given the care Teckla had given Lorae so many years before.

Our “Lorae” experience continued for a while with my prostate cancer, Teckla’s gall bladder removal, Peter’s death, and Teckla’s diagnosis with dementia. Just when things couldn’t get worse, they did. But we are now blessed to complete more circles. When we adopted Peter as a baby, my parents stepped in and paid many of our expenses and we have recently been able to cover most of the cost of Dylan and Vanessa’s adopting Ari. Teckla and I rejoice in these great looping circles of grace and love that God weaves into our lives.

This morning after eating breakfast, taking medications, and praying and singing together, Teckla said, “Thank you.”  I asked her what she was thanking me for, she said, “For all you do for me.” For years, Teckla did so much to care for me, our sons, and so many others. It was now my turn, and my blessing, to care for her. I am now doing most of the cooking, cleaning, and management of our finances. Here is another circle of love and grace. None of these circles are simply the impersonal workings of karma. These circles are covered with the fingerprints of God and the fragrance of His love.

Time has taught me not just to love God, but to love His ways. Love never fails. Nothing given in the name of Jesus is ever lost, ever wasted. Even when we are weary, even when we can’t see the good ending for which we long, may the circles of God’s love and grace remain unbroken.     

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Ordinary Sacraments of Extraordinary Grace

Posted on March 19, 2025 by Mark

Ordinary Sacraments of Extraordinary Grace

  • The light in Teckla’s eyes when she worships: a steady distant gaze of glory, electric blue with joy.

  • Acorns: brown potential, fallen, squirreled and lost under snow, alive with hidden hope.

  • Buds: tightly folded, sheathed against the cold, until spring rains light the green fuse.

  • An old dog: the whimper of joy, the slow wag while rising on old legs.

  • Laughing children: Spring sun after a cold winter, untiring play.
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White-tailed

Posted on March 10, 2025 by Mark

Teckla and I take long walks every day. Although Johnson County is blighted with miles of industrial parks and suburban housing developments, it has many amazing parks and miles of bicycle and hiking trails. After a short drive, it is possible to stroll for hours through woods and prairie.

The winter has been harsh, with a couple blizzards, an ice storm, and many days below zero. The eastern cedar is the only evergreen native to this area, so forests are naked. I have enjoyed hiking through the bare bones of woods and limestone ridges. The rocks, cliffs, and gullies will be hidden behind a wall of green this summer, so I am trying to make a mental map of the land.

Yesterday Teckla and I scared up a white-tailed deer while we wandered through a stand of oak and shagbark hickory. The bare branches and bushes allowed us not only to hear the deer bounding through the woods but also see its tail flashing white in the sun. The contrast of the white tail against all the brown and grays of tree trunks was startling.

I suppose there is a survival advantage in the tail flashing like a white flag. It catches your eye and makes you look at where deer was and not where it is going. In the three seconds we watched the deer, we never saw whether it was a buck or a doe. We never saw its head or antlers. The soft grey and brown of its coat blended perfectly with the bare trees and bushes. After each leap, it was invisible.

Yet, it was thrilling to see. The trails were damp from the last melting snow, so we had seen many deer tracks. There was abundant evidence of their presence, but on most hikes, we had not seen any. Seeing the white-tails was a joy.

The white flash of the deer’s tail broke through the barrenness of winter with energy and beauty. I am grateful for how faithful the Holy Spirit is to pierce our barrenness with His beauty and grace. In many small ways, and in hidden places Teckla and I have seen the tracks of Holy Spirit in our lives, but it is wonderful when His beauty blazes bright and strong in the winter sun.  

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Winter Visions

Posted on February 21, 2025 by Mark

The second big snow covers the ground, and it was ten below last night. We moved here in July, so this is our first Kansas winter. At these temperatures, frostbite is a real danger, especially when the chill factor gets to 20 below. The cold wind cuts like daggers through your clothes and your face numbs instantly.

On the southern Oregon coast, the daffodils and crocuses are up. Snow queen is blooming at Euphoria Ridge under the myrtles. After throwing on a jacket, one can walk the Oregon beaches on a sunny February day. Here we have been housebound for a couple weeks, even though we are quick to get out when the temperatures hit the 40’s. People at the stores express how tired they are of winter, but I am patient. I am even patient with the barrenness of winter, the naked branches of trees, and dry rattle of wildflower stalks.

I have memories of spring from when we lived here in the 80’s. Few places have a more glorious spring. In April the redbuds bloom and spring beauty, phlox, and bluebells run riot in the woods. The air fills with living sweetness of spring and all things green. All is lush and alive.

Even now, the earth drinks deep from the melting blanket of snow. Rhizomes and roots stir, spread, and push deeper. Brown life percolates in spongy dirt as last year’s grass and leaves rot and dissolve. The melting snow is even gentler than the spring rains. Fallen seeds awaken. The slow-burning fuse of spring is lit. Beneath the melting snow lies the promise of spring’s green explosion of life and beauty.

Because I have seen spring, I celebrate instead of berate the cold and snow. Even though it has been 30 years since I have experienced a Kansas spring, the memory holds me steady. Just as one never really sees water until one finds a spring in the desert, one never experiences spring until they have had a winter of snow and ice. The certainty of spring and resurrection changes how we see this present winter.

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A Distant Shore

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Mark

In the middle of night, I listen to the rumble of the trains. The sleepy sound carries me away to nights camping on the Oregon coast. When the winds had died down and the traffic on 101 slowed, Teckla and I, snug in our sleeping bags, could hear the roar of the surf from our campsite at Washburn State Park.

Here in Gardner, the Santa Fe, California , and the Oregon trails met and parted. On patches of grass near the edges of farmer’s fields, one can still see the ruts the wagons made. Railroads replaced the trails long ago, killing some small towns and giving life to others, stitching the nation together with tracks.

The railroads testify that we are still a restless nation. Huge warehouses and miles of industrial parks have sprung up at the edge of Gardner. Near my neighborhood is Intermodal, a huge facility for the movement of containers from trucks to trains and from trains to trucks. Our restlessness is now expressed in consumption, not migration. The rail cars are stacked two high with Amazon and Walmart containers.

The trains run through town night and day. I suspect I will eventually cease to hear them, just as people who live near the ocean stop hearing the waves. But I hope not. The rattle, hum, and roar of the trains takes me home to nights sleeping beneath red cedar and spruce. The horn of the train barges through the winter nights like the foghorn at the jetty in Bandon. It calls me to a distant shore.

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Riptides

Posted on February 11, 2025 by Mark

I felt foolish and terrified. I had let my boys venture into the surf on boogie boards near the jetty at Bastendorf Beach. They had gone far enough out to catch some waves, but no matter how much they thrashed around they could not get back. They were fighting a current that would not let them paddle to where Teckla and I stood yelling over the roar of the surf. This is Oregon where the water is cold and the surf, rough. They did not have on wetsuits, so we feared the cold, current, and exhaustion would drown them.

In a panic, I jogged back to the dunes where some surfers were basking in the sun. I pointed to my boys and breathlessly asked a surfer, “Would you help my boys? They can’t make it back to shore.” I expected him to grab his board and rush into the water, but he just looked out at my boys. Then he said, “They are caught in a riptide. Tell them not to fight it. It will carry them south and spit them out on shore.” Sure enough, by the time I got back to surf’s edge they were wading through the waves to the beach.

Over the years, I have seen many believers caught in spiritual riptides. They are a pastor’s nightmare. No matter how hard they paddle, they don’t make any progress or move any closer to God. They exhaust themselves, and in their exhaustion, risk giving up and sinking beneath the waves. There are several kinds of spiritual riptides.

A common riptide is the cycle of trying harder and failing harder. We thrash around feeling guilty and ashamed, vowing to try harder and do better. But we never do, no matter how hard we paddle toward shore. I was saved at age nine but was stuck in this riptide until age sixteen. To be honest, I was not enjoying being a Christian no matter how many altar-calls I answered. Finally, I said, “God I can’t do this in my own strength, but I am going to follow Jesus without giving up. And if I fall, I will fall toward you.” At the time, I did not know I was doing this, but I began to trust God to keep me and give me strength. I also trusted in His unchanging love—love that did not disappear every time I sinned. I trusted in the current of His grace to save me. The result was joy—and growth.

Another riptide we can get caught in is fear and unbelief. This happened to Israel when God was ready to lead them into Canaan. Israel refused to listen to the good report of Caleb and Joshua and would not trust God to give them victory over the Canaanites. They were stuck wandering in the desert because of their unbelief and disobedience. Sometimes we are stuck because in one area of our life we have said no to God. We fail to grow spiritually  anywhere because we have declared one area of our life off-limits to God. Only complete surrender to the current of God’s brings us safely to shore.

A third riptide is a transactional relationship with God. This where we follow God to the degree that He keeps His end of the bargain. We will follow God if he gives us good health, a successful career, a happy marriage, godly children, and pastors that never fall. This huge tangle of “IF’s” makes all obedience partial, contingent, and tentative. To our stupid surprise, this approach never brings us closer to God. We never grow and never have the father/child relationship our heart longs for. To our dismay, we discover God will not stop being God. Clinging to Jesus and surrendering to the love revealed in His life, death, and resurrection sets us free from this riptide. We need to be able to proclaim that if God did nothing more for us than what He has done in Jesus on the cross, it would be enough.

A fourth riptide is our individualism. There is growth God can and will give only in the context of the Body of Christ, the church, the family of God. Because evangelicals rightly emphasize a personal relationship and experience of God, we are often blind to how central community is to God’s heart and his purposes. All the gifts of the Holy Spirit in I Corinthians 12, 13, and 14 are given for building (edifying) the Body of Christ, not so that individuals can have a successful ministry. Even the offices of apostle, prophet, pastor, teacher, and the evangelist are for equipping the saints.  When we seek in isolation what God will only give in community—we are stuck.

And as with real riptides, escape comes when we surrender. One of the paradoxes of faith is how hard we must work at resting in God and surrendering to His will. So much of our peace and growth comes from letting God undo much we thought we had to do to please Him. God will unravel our agenda, raising up values we ignored and bringing down castles we built on the sand of our pride.  

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The Snake in my Tears

Posted on January 31, 2025 by Mark

There should be a myth about a species of snake that lives off our tears and bites us when they begin to dry.

For the last couple years, after the death of my son, if asked how I was doing, I would say, “Terrible.” I said that to give myself permission to grieve, permission to feel my loss and brokenness. I recently finished All the Noise is in the Shallow End, a book by my pastor, Mark Warren. It is a bracing and honest account of his journey out of the shallow end of ambition, anxiety, and depression to the deep end of God’s grace and unconditional love. The book is a call to rest in just being with God and feeling God’s love in our bones and blood. In his excellent book, Mark challenges us to carefully examine ourselves.

I did not like the result of my examination.  I discovered, to my dismay, that I am doing well. I feel loved by God and have deep peace in the midst of genuine heartbreak. I am not “terrible” even though I will never stop grieving the loss of Peter. I am full of what I call “stupid joy”—stupid because all the facts of my life argue against it. It is probably more like a “holy joy”, but this claim seems pretentious. There is a calm and peace I cannot explain and is not the result of being zapped by God. My heart even feels free and open to love others.

What disturbs me is that part of me doesn’t want to be okay—at rest in God. Peter’s death, and the terrible years leading up to it, were genuinely traumatic. And trauma has given me a license to be broken, messed-up, and a little self-centered. If we have wounds, people let us take time to lick them. Our pain can numb us to the pain of others. I didn’t want, I discovered, to lose the license to not care—to be self-absorbed.

Even worse, my poetic soul does not want to give up the tragic aura of being ruined by the loss of those I love. Part of me, I must confess, wants to be sick with melancholy. It is hard since I don’t drink—but people might excuse me becoming a sloppy drunk, crying in my beer. I can finally be a hero with a tragic back story. But I can’t hold the pose of tortured poet without feeling ridiculous—and dishonest.  

I gave into temptation and revisited all the most traumatic moments. I cried a little, but realized I only had a healthy and reasonable grief—nothing grand, nothing poetic, nothing tragic. And these tears were a little forced—tears from the bite of the snake that feeds on them. I think all who go through trauma and grief must beware of this serpent and the license that trauma gives.

I am well because of all the little things. Each day Teckla I read scripture aloud, sing three hymns, sing some worship songs, and pray. God has not powerfully visited us during these times, but this practice has kept our hearts steadfast. As Mark Warner urges in his book, we have not been trying to get well or whole, we have been training—doing the spiritual exercises that allows God to heal us. We have not made it rain; we have only set out buckets and prayed. God’s grace and help has filled the buckets. Walks in the woods and prairies, hugs from grandchildren, and breakfast at Perkins with friends are a few of the common graces that sustain us.

I have traded the license of trauma for the freedom of the Spirit.

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