Through much of the year the mountain ash tree on our southwest corner is nothing to catch the eye, but when it comes into its own, covered in clusters of bright red fruits, it takes the stage with native grace. For me it's a reminder of a trip long ago...when my brave Grandma Dorothy packed my brother Joel and me into her car and took us on the long journey from our home in north central California to Spokane, Washington where her mother and sister (my great-grandmother and great-aunt) lived at the time. I don't remember much about the trip, but I do remember the mountain ash in my Great-Grandmother's yard. It must have been about this time of year—it was definitely summertime because school was out—and the mountain ash was probably in it's glory. Who could help noticing a tree like that? I wanted to have one of my own. I think I dug up a seedling to bring home with the intent of growing my own mountain ash tree. If the plant survived the trip, it certainly didn't last long once we returned to California—I have no memory of it beyond my Great-Grandmother's yard. It was beautiful, but it wasn't for me. Not yet. Today those memories stir a gentle awareness, a recognition that a part of the beauty of anything is in the rightness of its timing: Beauty isn't just an exquisitely played single note, but the combination of that note with a thousand others at just the right time to form a symphony. My time? Like Jesus' brothers, I'm ready NOW—but Jesus, with the patience of a Man who really understands the music may say, "My time has not yet come." When His time does come, He's ready—and what He does at the right time is something of incomparable beauty. #waitingforgod #mountainash © Copyright August 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
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Through our open bedroom window we hear their calls through the night: not the mellow "Whoo, whoo" we generally associate with wise birds, but a horrific (and very loud) shrieking. When we first moved here, it was downright disturbing: What is making that hideous racket at all hours? Then we saw them. Peering out the broken window pane on the north side of the barn the young owlets waited for their parents to return with the catch of the day—and while they waited, they screeched. We've listened as the owls have nested year after year. We've watched as parents have taught their babies to fly. We've cheered their successes and, sometimes, we've mourned their failures. Tonight, I looked up from our workout station on the ground level of the barn and spotted success—three owls perched in silence, undisturbed by my antics below and evidently unruffled by Lucy the dog rummaging around on the barn's second story. They're saving their screaming for my bedtime, I'm sure. But that's alright. I'm enjoying their family and remembering that rearing children is always messy—and usually loud. That's just the way of life. #barnowls © Copyright August 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
The crystal-clear water of the Nooksack River greeted us when we joined our friends far upstream from Ferndale in the foothills of the Cascades. Our Nooksack—where it flows through our town—is broader and colder and stronger and murkier. Still it’s a preferred play place for the hardy-souled in summertime. But this? This was a Nooksack River we did not know existed until Jim and Jeb discovered the gentle, warm stream of the South Fork. Really the spot they found was at the confluence of two rivers where the mild, clear South Fork joins the turbulent, glacial North Fork. We parked just off Highway 9 and walked the potholed trail to the beach. We floated and swam and soaked up the sun for hours: For the Pacific Northwest this felt almost like the tropics! Afternoon waned and we returned to our starting point to begin the trek back home. The convergence of the two rivers was as clear as if a line was drawn in the water: The North Fork, filled with glacial sediment, was a sturdy milk-blue crested with choppy waves telling a story of speed and current; The good-natured South Fork disappeared into the North Fork's stronger flow. Our son Benjamin and friend Jeb were in pursuit of fish. No poles and hooks involved, just swimming goggles and good eyes. They just wanted to see them. We figured the fish were here—we’d seen them upstream in the South Fork. What might the North Fork reveal? The boys ventured closer to the junction of the rivers and found what they were looking for. They dove and surfaced and dove again, capturing visual treasure, enjoying the camaraderie and adventure. Benjamin was just a little further out than Jeb and he felt the ground cut away beneath him as the cold current grabbed him. He swam a retreat to the warm, placid South Fork, but he didn’t realize until that moment that he had no reserves. He had been in the river for a long time, and now, without realizing it, he was at the end of his strength. Now, at the moment he really needed it, he had no energy with which to fight his way to solid footing. Jeb was quick to spot the trouble: “Are you OK?” he asked over the rushing water. “No!” Benjamin gasped. Benjamin was so close that Jeb reached out and they locked hands. Jeb pulled—pulled against the river that was pulling against both of them. But the river was stronger: He couldn’t pull Benjamin back to safety. Their grasp failed. I don’t know exactly what Jeb yelled next: I was sauntering around on the beach with keys in hand, getting ready to go once the two of them returned to shore. They were in my peripheral view, but not the center of my attention. I heard the yell, and glanced up in time to see my friend Jim, Jeb’s dad, leap to action from the other side of the South Fork where he was sitting, partially submerged, on a plastic lawn chair. I watched as he shouted and plowed through the water. In a flash, I understood. I ran down the beach, flip-flops flying off along the path, keys and phone dispatched along the route, and dove into the water. Jim reached the boys some time before I did—who knows how much sooner?—and grappled with Benjamin while sending Jeb further back to safety. He held Benjamin up, but Benjamin was struggling for air, fighting to keep his own head above water. Jim fought the water and fought Benjamin—and he knew the fight couldn’t last for long. I was oblivious as I plunged in and swam madly toward the current, toward Jim and my son. I was in a tunnel and rational thinking was somewhere on the outside in the world of light and air. I didn’t know—I couldn’t have known—that Jim was almost at his end, that he was despairing, “I don’t think I can save Benjamin.” And then—I don’t know how long it took—I was there. I don’t remember noticing the current or the cold water. I just headed for my son, and, in a miracle of trust, Benjamin threw his arm around my neck and ceased to struggle. We were still in the middle of the river; I was still in that strange tunnel that narrowed my focus to mechanical function. But the moment Jim was freed from the burden of rescue, his thinking focused and he was sharp enough to think for both of us. I was swimming vainly for the shore, trying to hold up my own head with the added burden of my almost limp son. Treading water in front of me, Jim shouted, “Swim right!” Right seemed all wrong—right would take us further away from the home beach, further through the current—but going right was with the current. I hesitated: Jim’s right (he was facing me) was my left. Jim shouted again, then started for the farther shore. In my tunnel, I just followed. Strangely, in the life-and-death swim that ensued, I don’t remember feeling overwhelmed by fear. Emotions were somewhere on the shore with my phone and keys. I was in a match with the river, pitting determination against its relentless pressure. I’d like to say that I cried out to God in my trouble, but I didn’t. The thought never entered my mind. I was conscious that my friend, Jim, was with me in the river. I was aware of the increasing pressure of Benjamin’ arm on my windpipe as I struggled for air. I was aware that my strength was failing, that it was almost gone. I was vaguely aware that I might have to peel Benjamin off to keep myself from drowning. “I can’t make it!” I gasped. And then I was there. My feet touched bottom. We stood on the far shore panting and collecting ourselves for a couple of minutes before picking our way up the edge of the river to the place where the water suddenly turned warm again and we were back in the South Fork. We returned across the easy water and looked back… Jim’s girls had wanted to stay upriver longer, but Jim decided that it was time to return downstream to join us. When he arrived opposite our beach, he picked up a plastic lawn chair he had left on that side, and, instead of crossing the stream and loading the vehicle decided to sit down on the chair in the water facing the boys. What if Jim hadn’t come back? What if he hadn’t sat down and watched? What if Jeb hadn’t called for help or Jim hadn’t heard and immediately responded? What if Benjamin continued struggling when I arrived? What if I had kept trying to swim against the current? What if I really couldn’t make it? Jim and I sat down with our sons the following evening to look fear and death in the face, to retell the story, to weep for joy, to give thanks to the God for whom “what if” is mere fantasy, to praise the God who hears us before we call—and to pick up a few stones from this riverbed where God went with us through the peril. “This is not a story of shame,” we told the boys. “It is a story to tell to your children and grandchildren.” It’s a story of our weakness—yes. But far more, it is a story of the kindness and might of our God. “You’ll need this story in the future,” we assured them. It was as though we joined Joshua and the children of Israel on the banks of the Jordan River after their safe passage and together made a heap of stones. “When your children ask their fathers in times to come, ‘What do these stones mean?’ then you shall let your children know, ‘Israel passed over this Jordan on dry ground.’… ‘so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, that you may fear the Lord your God forever’” (Joshua 4:21-24). You are mighty, O God, and we love and fear You. When we consider these stones again in times to come, we will remember that when we passed through the waters, You were with us; and through the rivers, they did not overwhelm us . . .for you are the Lord our God. © Copyright August 2017 by Robert G. Robbins It's rare, west of the Cascades, to have smoky summer skies, but massive fires burning in British Columbia have combined with northeast breezes to turn our blue skies a hazy brown. One of the most singular features of these days has been the appearance of the sun itself: The camera just can't capture the effect; filtering the photo still doesn't do it justice. The sun rises and sets like a glowing ember in a dying fire, it's unsearchable brilliance dimmed to human view. Smoke has tamed our solar sovereign—domesticated it's magnificence—made it subject to anyone's unshielded eye. Or has it? Somewhere, beyond the outflow of the Fraser Valley and the spillways of the Cascade Mountains people still shield their eyes at noon. The sun is unchanged; it's what I'm looking THROUGH that's different. From my place in the solar system I might interpret this sun as a weak monarch, incapable of holding the throne for long. But its might is undiminished by my poor perspective. It is completely unaltered by my inadequate view. So I'm not judging the sun by what I see; I'm judging it by what I know. When it rides through a sea of blue again, I'll rejoice that it was never deposed. #whatareyoulookingthrough? #ferndalesmoke © Copyright August 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
I laughed and cried at their first kiss: the joy and idealism, the love and dreams, the purity and beauty of real passion, unfettered by the shackles of free love that isn't really free. I cried like a lover who has found his love, because I have. But I cried like a dad, too. I cried for change, for this milepost that celebrates our own mortality, for the relentless march of time toward the end of our time. Beauty and change, dreams and dying were, in a strange way, wedded in one glorious event as we witnessed the vows of our young friends, "till death do us part." But what happens when death does part me from my lover or my lover from me? I used to fear loving because I feared the loss of the one I loved. I feared the pain and emptiness. I feared the aloneness. Maybe that's why I love weddings most: There's a love that cannot ever die, a Lover who vows even life—EVEN DEATH—cannot separate us. I can hardly wait for the wedding. #myellawasabeautifulbridesmaid@ella_flies_the_tango © Copyright July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
High tide at Point Whitehorn tonight, and a bright seaweed necklace runs along the water's edge like confetti glistening in the sun. Incoming waves, unusually active for our inland passageway, beat a rhythm against the shore, and their retreat makes the little rocks sing a melody as they tumble and roll. It's the song of the borderland, where long ago, God drew a line: "...He assigned to the sea its limit, so that the waters might not transgress His command..." I, too, have a song in my borderland: Incoming waves pulse with deep rhythm, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you"; their outrush rejoices with a thousand tinkling voices, "He has delivered . . . and He will deliver us. On Him we have set our hope that He will deliver us again." © Copyright July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
They're growing so fast, these little cotton balls...but I wonder what it feels like to BE a rabbit. I wonder if, in the scale of their brief lives, it feels like the passage from birth to adulthood is an eternity, if it seems like they'll never get all their silky fur. I wonder if they wonder how long before they'll finally get a place of their own, away from siblings who always crowd their personal space... I look at life so differently: The day Rosemary jubilated over tiny red, hairless creatures buried in a nest was only three weeks ago. So soon they're transformed. Perhaps they wait in impatience—but I'm astounded at the speed of change, amazed at the differences day-by-day. To say it plainly, they just don't have a big enough perspective. They live in a rabbit-sized world and grow at a rabbit-pace. They'll have to trust me if they're to believe that soon enough really is. #rosemarysrabbits © Copyright July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
Enjoyed a private showing of my brother-in-law's powerful art in his own gallery in Mt. Vernon, Washington, then shared dinner with the artist. There's much more to these Skagit Valley inspired works than first meets the eye—more depth, more texture, more... But that "more" is achieved through reduction—by less. I'm thinking about the experience and realizing that many times we have to let go of something we thought valuable in order to gain what really matters. There's a little color in these pieces, but very little—instead we're confronted with the force of the images themselves, with depth of thought and medium, with the mind of the artist, with sweeping realities that might have been obscured by "more." Jesus said, "So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be My disciple." I like to accumulate, to add this to that—and I often come out with less, not more. But the truth is clear: It's in reduction that we experience the sweeping power of a power greater than our own. It's in loss that we gain. @christiancarlson7 @perryandcarlson © Copyright July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
Preparing for Sunday, studying for a message from Isaiah 40. Do you know how much water a man can hold in his cupped hand? By my measurement, it's about one tablespoon—and then it's leaking through my fingers and spilling over the edges. But God measures the waters of the earth in the hollow of His hand. To get a sense of what that means, consider that there are 187 quintillion gallons of water in the Pacific Ocean alone. Read that 187,000,000,000,000,000,000—then multiply by 256 and you have the number of times we'd have to dip a hand into this one ocean to measure it. And that's just an anthropomorphism to help us wrestle with infinity. Job, considering similar pictures of God, aptly exclaims: "Behold, these are but the outskirts of His ways, and how small a whisper we hear of Him! But the thunder of His power who can understand?" (Job 26:14). © July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
Twenty-three years ago today I married my bride. It seemed fitting today that we capture a memory of the occasion, however informal, so we asked Ella to man the camera and I selected a rural seat (read "the ground") where the light was relatively even and pleasant. I had pruned a massive rose bush just prior to the photo-shoot and the prunings made for a massive bouquet (read "colorful brush pile") with which our complicated set was complete. We sat down and realized that Andrew's dog, Lucy, was sprawled flat-out in the grass nearby looking far too much like a doggie-corpse and, unfortunately, was visible through the lens of the camera--so we called her to attention to make her look a little more attractive (read "less dead") in the photo. She happily obliged--and promptly decided she needed to get right between us. But being in the middle of the picture wasn't enough. She took to kissing my hapless bride (read "licking aggressively") while Ella, taking her job with utmost seriousness, snapped away behind the camera. I guess that's OK when you've been married for twenty-three years. But next year, I get to do all the kissing of the bride. Happy anniversary to my beloved Melissa! PS--Thanks for not kissing the dog back... © Copyright July 2017 by Robert G. Robbins
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