I never tired of hiking Oregon beaches. Along this dynamic edge of the continent, everything is alive. Purple sea urchins, sea stars, green anemones, goose-neck barnacles, and muscles cling to wave-pounded rocks. The kelp beds shelter and nourish all kinds of fish. Sea lions bark and roar and harbor seals bob up and down just beyond the surf. Waves of sandpipers fly up and down the beaches while gulls fill the air with their cries.
Even the beach seems alive. Each tide changes its shape. The creeks that snake into the ocean change their course after each storm. Sand moves in and out and up and down the beach, sometimes uncovering gravel beds full of agates that glow in the sun. Cliffs collapse and dunes drift across trails and roads.
I have also learned to love the edges of Kansas. During our first sojourn in the Kansas/Missouri area, I often walked an abandoned railway to the school where I was teaching. The rails not only open the woods to the sunlight, but also transport wildflower seeds up and down gravel bed. Prairie penstemon, blazing star, blue vervain, evening primrose, and verbena grew in the gravel beds on each side of the tracks. Red foxes used the rusty rails to move silently as they stalked their prey through fallen leaves.
The hedgerows at the edges of fields are filled with life. These hedges, planted long ago when the land was settled, are anchored by thorny honey locust, Osage orange trees, and eastern cedar. Here sparrows, finches, and other seed-eaters nest. Hawks and owls perch on the branches as they scan nearby fields for mice, voles, and rabbits. White-tailed deer shelter in the undergrowth of the hedgerows.
Spiritually, Teckla and I have always lived on the edge. We have walked in the hedgerows that divide holiness and charismatic movements and seen the richness of each field. We have walked the shoreline where faith and reason meet and found it full of life. When we moved across the country and when we adopted four boys, our obedience pushed us to the edges of our faith. Recently, cancer, the death of our oldest son and now dementia has brought us to the edge of our trust in God—but here too life abounds.
Recently we hiked along an old hedgerow near our house. It marks a ragged boundary between the subdivision and the huge industrial park to the west. The warm fall was ending, and birds were beginning to flock together. Robins and red-winged blackbirds filled the tops of the trees. Teckla and I walked in the shadows cast by the warehouses, but high in the branches the birds all faced west, catching the last rays of the winter sun. Our hearts were lifted up.
