We visited a local church other than our home church this Sunday.

It was their youth Sunday. So many of these young people have been campers and staff at the remote Bible camp where my husband (Scruffy) and I live and work. We wanted to support them on their big day. The youth led a variety of lovely Christmas carols but then finished with a duet by two young ladies.

As I listened, letting the music fill the room and pour over me, filling my eyes with tears, I noticed an elderly couple in front of us.

It was a modern song, not the type of melody one would expect to transition well between generations.

However, standing beside his wife, was an older gentleman. He had the look of a lifelong worker. Perhaps a truck driver, mechanic, or one of the many retired orchardists who fill our rural community. Simple clothes, shirt untucked, Gnarled hands raised to heaven as he listened to the clear voices of the girls worshiping on the stage.

He worshipped with them, letting the years between them fall away as the presence of our Savior filled the room.

I wept anew at the picture this painted.

Young and old, standing together, one before the God who loves.

In a different moment he might think those young women drive too fast, don’t wear dresses enough, and gracious did they park on his grass again!

On a different day these girls might sigh at his stories, wonder why everything takes so long, and get frustrated that he’s surprised they want to study science at college.

But not on that Sunday.

It was December, the darkest month of the year, set aside to remember the light, and they did.

They sang. They listened. They felt the joy of being God’s and being together as children of God.

Young and old, together, worshipping, strong.

May we be the same.

May the years between us fall away as we worship.

The post May the Years Between Us Fall Away as we Worship appeared first on KristenJoyWilks.com.

The amazing thing about wildflowers is that they come amidst all of the ugly forest rubble of early spring.

Up through decaying leaf litter, scattered twigs, and crusty snow-tamped ground they spring to life and bloom.

A bit of hope for those of us who wonder why God doesn’t step in more often.

Why doesn’t He clear the way for His people, pick up the sticks, the fallen logs, move a few pine cones out of the way.

Why must we bloom smack in the center of so much hurt and darkness?

Then again, I have walked through cultivated gardens.

Somehow, I prefer a forest path and those determined wildflowers to all the carefully guarded blooms.

Last year we got eleven inches of snow right on top of our first glacier lilies and spring beauties.

My town friends saw all of the flowers in their yards die.

However, a couple days later when the hot spring sun melted the snow,

the glacier lilies and spring beauties straightened bent leaves, stretched tall, and bloomed in their full splendor.

They survived something that a hot house blossom never could.

Perhaps the Lord needs us to be this kind of flower, the one that can bloom in the darkest, ugliest places.

Matthew 5:16–“In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

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Along with an incredible amount of stress, worry, and weighty ministry work … I have just experienced a string of baffling and unexpected miracles.

You probably don’t know this, but I have been so discouraged. I’ve gone way past the stage where people who started writing when I did are getting amazing contracts and winning awards. I’m sitting through keynote addresses by folks who started writing seriously AFTER I did. This is not an anomaly. It’s happened several times. In fact, I’m now sitting through lectures by people who started writing after me who are so successful that they are not allowed to enter contests anymore. The more this happens, the more I wonder if perhaps this twenty-two year experiment was in fact a giant waste of time.

However, there is a conference I have wanted to attend for about a decade. It is too expensive, but I have been lurking on their website a long time. Entering contests (and finaling … but not winning) that granted free attendance. Hoping for a “someday” moment. Then the conference was cancelled. Someone tried to start it up again and failed. Then someone else tried and succeeded. Yay! However, it was still too expensive.

In a fit of optimism, I applied for a scholarship this year.

I got two.

It wasn’t enough and so I stuffed my hopes one more time and declined the scholarships.

Then I pulled a CD I’d been saving for decades (yes, you get $ from the government when you lose a parent as a child) so that we can fix the roof on our house. Scruffy (my husband) pulled me aside. “That can’t just go to house repairs. We’re gonna make sure you get to your dream conference.”

I told him, “Maybe next year.”

The conference was already full, we hadn’t fixed the roof yet, my risk-averse nature just couldn’t handle living the dream quite yet.

The next day, I got an email from the conference director. A spot had opened up as well as another scholarship. An even bigger scholarship. I waffled, still scared. Should I? Dare I?

“Go for it!” Scruff insisted.

And so I did, but with much prayer and uncertainty lurking beneath my excitement. “Lord, I need to know if I should keep trying. I need direction, new ideas, a bit of hope. Could You send me just a little bit of hope?”

Most of the deadlines for the conference had come and gone, but with a few days left, I managed to enter their writing contest about courage.

I found a flight that was one third of the expected cost and I even got the last seat in another attendee’s rental car from the airport to the conference!

Did I mention they have flowers in California. Flowers. I walked away from two feet of snow and into a flowerstorm.

Through getting lost in the parking garage and other hijinks, I made four new friends in the women I shared a car with. Then on the very first day, I ran into a good writer friend I hadn’t seen in a year. Laughter, tears, so many good things.

Then somehow, the key note speakers all spoke about the pain of writing, the uncertainty, the hopeless times, wanting to give up. The lament of writing, the uncertainty. After twenty-two years of hard work with little fruit, I soaked up their words and let them settle on all the dry places I hadn’t dared look too hard at for such a long time.

This year just happened to be the first time in years that they had a major morning track devoted to children’s writing. During the first morning of children’s teaching, I had an idea, a new idea. Then I had another and another.

I met with editors. People I had planned to talk with and people who were surprises. Someone whose house had rejected seven of my manuscripts told me, “I love your writing,” and one more little seed of hope stretched through the soil. Agents gave me fresh ideas and encouragement. Then, Sunday service was about what to do when God doesn’t give you a guarantee.

It was as though God had pulled back the curtain around my dutiful little heart and saw the truth. As I slogged forward, keeping on keeping on for just one more grueling step, my Lord saw me and He brought teaching, talks, conversations, and even a sermon that spoke directly to me. To someone who had been persevering for too long. Too long to actually keep hoping.

The sermon was by the agent of one of my good friends. Bob Hostetler spoke on three times that famous Bible people hoped without a guarantee. When Jonathan son of Saul said “Perhaps the Lord …” and attacked the Philistines just him and his armor bearer. When David said, “Maybe the Lord …” and stopped his men from lopping off the head of a man cursing him. And of course when the three Hebrew slaves told the king of the world they would not bow. That God was able to save them, “But if not …”

God hasn’t given me a guarantee that my words will find a home. However, He absolutely does miracles. I see them all the time about other things. If Jonathan was willing to risk his life for “Perhaps the Lord …” who am I to stop writing after honing my craft for a couple of decades?

Ten years ago, I knelt during worship at the ACFW conference some dear friends paid for me to attend. After ignoring the call to write a camp blog, I gave God my book dreams with tears streaming down my cheeks and told Him yes, I would write the camp blog. Whenever I hear that song, I remember my promise. I remember my call.

Our little blog was a decade old in December and He has worked in it and through it.

There was never a question of quitting the blog. But what about the fact that I’ve spent over twenty years learning my craft, have brought my writing up to a high level, and it hasn’t been enough?

What about those twenty-six unpublished children’s book manuscripts sitting on my computer? Wasn’t it about time to give up on them?

Honestly, I don’t know.

However, on our last day of worship, with tears streaming down my cheeks, I knelt again.

I gave all those stories to Him, one more time. Victory or defeat, they were His. I let myself hurt and let myself hope and rested in the pounding beauty of the song as it filled the chapel.

The next day we enjoyed our final classes and then zipped back to the chapel to wrap things up.

So many new friends.

So much knowledge and encouragement.

It was just so much.

Then the conference director gave out a few awards and shushed me for laughing too loudly. Yes, I always sit in the front. She said that we had made it really hard on her this year as she tried to judge the writing contest about courage. That 50% of attendees had entered. That the entries were all so so good.

Then she said my name.

She called me up and said that they had picked mine.

I still don’t know God’s plan for my writing beyond the camp blog.

But I know that despite the last twenty-two years of stumbling on, I will press on just a little bit more.

I’m not sure that I could have written this piece about courage if my heart hadn’t been so shattered and raw.

Even that, my friend. He uses even that.

Psalm 34:18–“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Boo Boo

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Come and join me over at The Campfire Blog as I record the ups and downs of this crazy thing called camp ministry. This week: Junior High Winter Blast!

Here’s a sneak peek … .

Junior High Winter Blast is one of our favorites here at Camas Meadows.

This is such a fun age-group to host.

Junior high campers have the incredible energy and capacity for adventure of children.

But their thought processes are maturing and they are able to hold deep conversations about life, the Bible, God, and of course snow ducks!

Or rubber duckies, depending what kind of duck is available.

This camper brought ducks with her this year because … ducks! Later, her cabin was delighted when Boo Boo found a snow duck maker and gifted it to them. More about that later.

But as was mentioned earlier, ducks are only one of the topics that junior high campers can wax eloquent about! Here, the campers worship God together with song. It was so delightful to have a quick visit from Choco and Partake as well as the joy of listening to Choco lead us in worship again. These kids know how to sing and they rattled the lodge with their voices. So lovely!

OK, folks. End of Boo Boo’s official camp blog teaser! Please zip on over to The Campfire Blog to enjoy the rest of our adventures!!!

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I’ve lived off-grid since before the term off-grid was coined. Now, what most people think of when they hear this is the beautiful views we enjoy. Rightly so, it is absolutely lovely. Here is our mountain meadow early in the morning when the trees were coated in frost. Perfect peace, indeed.

However, in order to live at and run a remote Bible camp, we have to do so many things for ourselves. We plow our own roads, pump our own water, and produce our own electricity. Pictured above is the small generator I inherited from my 104-year-old grandfather. It is supposed to run power to our home and charge up a bank of batteries that should then give us enough subsequent power for several good hours of work on the computer for Scruffy (my camp director husband), writing and cooking for me, and homework and computer gaming for our three teenage sons. And vacuuming, don’t forget the joys of vacuuming. You laugh, but have you ever spent a week without power and been unable to vacuum? Yeah, gives it a whole new angle doesn’t it? So, that is what is supposed to happen, when the system is working.

We had just faced an incredibly exhausting week. Too many crazy things to list, but Scruff, Bomber, and I talked. We absolutely had to have a day off that week. To recover and revive. To keep insanity at bay. The rental camp would leave on Sunday and so we chose Monday. No matter what, we were taking a day off on Monday.

On Sunday night, the power at our house completely died. Though our generator had stopped working, the camp generator was running and should have been charging our batteries, we had nothing but complete darkness. Scruff ran out to the generator shed to see what had happened. He was met by a cloud of toxic fumes. Coughing, he tried to press forward. However, the voice of reason was shouting and thank the Lord, Scruff listened. He backed out, warned our youngest son away and waited for the fumes to clear. Later, he went to investigate and our batteries were the issue. No power. A failed system. But as a woman who lost her dad to carbon monoxide poisoning when he was working on our family’s power system, I was so so thankful to still have my husband. Bomber (our maintenance gal) looked it up. Those fumes would have killed him if he’d stayed too long.

So clearly, the system needed a professional to take a peek. I used a phone book and our ancient phone that still plugs directly into the wall to start calling electricians. No one would come all the way up to where we live. The only off-grid mechanic in the area gently informed me that he was retiring and not taking any more clients. He gave me the name of a guy at the PUD to call for recommendations. They didn’t have any.

All was well and truly lost in the power department. Yes, I was SO thrilled to still have my husband and sons alive and well. However, as I transferred all of our food outside into coolers and hiked to Bomber’s house to use the internet for all of our school and work tasks with no end in sight, I admit despair crept across my heart. I’d tried everything. Absolutely, everything.

So we prayed. Again.

Desperately. Again.

We asked the camp board to pray for us. My mother asked the camp prayer team to pray for someone who knew what they were doing to appear and help.

I stared at these written prayers and I told the Lord, “Welp, You are just going to have to make this magical electrician appear out of the floorboards because I’ve tried everything.”

Despair continued it’s slow march.

Scruff tried to work, using neighboring power, and one of the things on his list was talking with rental directors for upcoming camps. One of them was running a men’s retreat and his group wanted to help out with some work projects. They made plans to help us with the 50+ trees that have fallen this winter and then Scruff mentioned the impossible. “What we really need, is an off-grid electrician.” An impossible request.

The impossible appeared.

A navy-trained electrician went to their church. Navy, as in, he’d worked on electrical systems on ships … ships that are off-grid!!!

He came up the next day. All of our connections on the batteries were corroding. Yes, our batteries are failing and we will need to get new ones. However, he got the system up and running again so that when the camp generator is on, we have power! We even have a few hours of battery power after that generator gets turned off.

God still surprises me. His power. His grace for this tired doubter. His love. His terrible, beautiful, impossible love for us.

Thank you Lord for stepping down into our trouble, one more time and doing Your thing.

Even though we never did get that day off.

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What is youth ministry really like?

What is camp ministry like?

There is a cold hard truth about youth ministry that they don’t tell you ahead of time.

Imagine that you have an unending to do list that has five things added every day. You can only finish one thing a day. Then imagine that one of those five things is a desperate blazing necessity. The power died, the water stopped running, your camp speaker is sick and you have three hours to find another one, one of your lead counselors got a concussion or ran full tilt into a tree in the forest and can’t walk, a teen you love is in crisis, an adult you love is in crisis, someone you love has died and somehow you are standing up front at their memorial service, a child you love tried to end their life and called you at 2:00AM, and of course the plow truck broke the day after that 2:00AM call.

Now, how many of those five things a day do you think you will get done as the crises mount?

This is camp ministry. This is any ministry for teens, for children, for people. You will deeply love too many souls to keep track of. You will love too many people to take care of. Because you have given your heart to so many, someone you love will be in crisis, always.

If you do ministry right, your heart will break every single day for the rest of your life. If you do it right, they will come to you at the lowest point in their lives because you loved them well … once upon a time. Somehow, they trust that you are still sane enough to keep on loving and not give up even when giving up is the only thing that makes sense.

But you don’t give up … because God loved you well, too. And He taught you through the fires of this earthly Hell and the glories of this earthly Heaven to try your very best to love in the same sacred and terrible way.

Welcome to youth ministry, my friend.

I’m so sorry, but yes, you walk on sacred ground.

Christ Himself must have called you here, like he called me (kicking and screaming) and my husband (blissfully naïve), otherwise you would not have chosen such exquisite joy and pain. You would have headed elsewhere with those happy, mentally sound individuals whose hearts are whole and whose spirits are light, unfettered by the impossible burdens of generations of children. If you struggle along long enough, dear one, you will be blessed to carry the burdens of their children, too.

Hold on, broken vessel. Hold fast, jars of clay.

For the words of life are not yours. They come freely to all, from the one who gave us life, with His life. Somehow this is enough to continue pouring ourselves out, day after day, in this great and terrible battle they call “youth ministry.”

2 Corinthians 4:7-12

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.

For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body.

So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.”

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For the last three months, I’ve been photographing the cottonwood tree at the top of the hill. November, December, and January. Same tree, different days; weather; and lighting.

From bare branches surrounded by the brightly-colored tamarack to that first coating of snow, autumn brought many changes to the old tree.

Then the icy glory of winter took hold.

A winter fog crept through the forest.

Simple snowy beauty came that makes one want to curl up by the fire with a good book.

Weather came and went, but the old cottonwood stood through it all, even though some branches break and fall as conditions changed.

Those silent moments right before sunrise, The Blue Hour, when the world is painted a dark and stunning hue.

The simple gray days of winter, between snowstorms and after a freezing rain. The old cottonwood was not its best here. The weather was dreary, the road icy, and the lighting was definitely subpar. Yet, the cottonwood continued.

Some days are like that. Gray, slippery, and oh so long. Yet, I cling to something that I learned from walking with my Lord, from paying attention to His creation on the dreary days as well as those filled with sunshine and surprises. There is beauty here, maybe the lighting isn’t quite right to see it now, but soon some slight thing will change and God’s glory will come shining through.

Endure just a little longer, Dear Friend. Your value is the same, wait a moment, and trust in the Father to bring your beauty to the surface at just the right time. Linger, grow stronger, rest in your Lord. You will shine, He promised, He will accomplish it in His time.

… and provide for those who grieve in Zion– to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor.”

Isaiah 61:3

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God has given me specific instructions only a handful of times. But when He urged Scruffy and I to work at Camas Meadows Bible Camp, It was very clear. He seems to leave a lot of decisions up to us, expecting us to use the good brains He gave us. But this huge life choice, living and working off-grid on a mountain meadow in order to provide an amazing camp experience for the children who are campers here, this was something He asked of us specifically.

However, as most worthy things are, living and working here has not proved to be an easy task.

Right before Christmas, December 22nd to be precise, every vital mechanical item at the camp was in good working order. Well, every item except our house generator which had recently quit charging the batteries at our home. But since the camp generator will charge our batteries when it is running, we could wait until after Christmas to get it fixed. Bomber, our camp maintenance person, breathed a sigh of relief as she prepared to travel off the hill and visit family for Christmas. Was everything ready for the camp coming the day after Christmas? It appeared to be. With her car packed, she rushed over to the generator which provides our power. A check engine light? Quickly, she shot Scruffy a text about it before jumping into her car lest she be late for their family Christmas celebration.

That warning light soon evolved into a baffling oil leak on our brand-new generator. Scruffy battled the oil leak and eventually saw victory, only to have a hydraulic hose break on the plow on the camp truck. This happened in Bomber’s driveway and to prevent her from thinking a murder had occurred in front of her house, Scruff texted her these photos … with no explanation. Which totally didn’t make her think he’d been horribly maimed on the job or anything.

Yes, Scruffy does have a history of experiencing a wide variety of injuries. From falling through a doorway on a ladder to blinding himself with a paint gun full of tinted log oil, his maintenance experiences have been exciting.

After sternly demanding a status update from Scruff about whether that was indeed blood, Bomber then went on to enjoy Christmas … and get a terrible week-long flu. Scruff fixed the snow plow on Christmas Eve. Then Scruffy and I enjoyed a delightful Christmas day where Scruff took the entire day off to be home with our boys. However, on the day after Christmas he went into the lodge to discover that a good portion of the dinning room was full of water! A pipe had broken during our very cold stretch (the neighbors recorded a low of twenty-two degrees below zero) and then began to leak when it warmed up. That, combined with freezing rain and the passes being closed led us to postpone Summer Staff Winter Retreat until December 27th.

Somewhere during that time, there was also a leak in the lodge roof from when the sliding ice pulled up a segment of the tin near the kitchen chimney. This caused water to leak into the kitchen and one of our camp ovens.

And so, with the mountain passes newly opened and the roads slick but passable, we began Summer Staff Winter Retreat!

As the campers arrived, Ragnar began preparing meals only to discover that both the classic oven and the convection oven were acting wonky. The pilot kept going out in the classic oven and the convection oven simply would not heat properly. After wrestling with the pilot, Ragnar finally kept it lit and the campers and staff enjoyed delicious meals and fellowship around the table. Apparently, the remnants of the roof leak were making the pilot light struggle, but once everything was dry, that oven at least, worked well.

Bomber returned, but was terribly ill and had to confine herself to quarters since no one else wanted to become terribly ill. Also, we are not sure that she was able to even move if she had wanted to. Even her cats had trouble rousing her from her illness-induced slumber.

Then, part way through the camp, the power down at our house quit. The next day, as the campers were leaving, the power at the camp quit. Still exhausted from having been so ill, Bomber crept out of her house to investigate. As the day wore on, she sorted through mechanical and electrical thingamabobs (this is the proper term for maintenance things I do not understand) looking for the problem.

Scruff tried to contact diesel mechanics and electricians willing to venture into the mountains, they are few and far between and none could be found who would arrive before the next weekend’s camp.

Finally, at about the point where I knew stuff in our freezer at home was in danger of being ruined, Bomber discovered a melted wire. Even though it was late, it wasn’t so late that the hardware store had closed. So she jumped into her care and headed down the hill in search of the electrical items needed for a fix.

That night, the power was back on and all was well … until something happened to the camp well!

Making all … not well, especially the well.

Water pressure was getting low, but when they hiked up the hill to run the small generator which would run the pump to fill up the holding tank and give us water, well … the pump didn’t work. Thus, after the thrill of finally having power again, we all experienced the plummeting feeling of realizing that there was no water.

Princess Leia Freyja was especially perturbed by a lack of water as she loves her fresh drinks (in a people mug only) and hates having slobbery water. We were using gallons of store bought water and pitchers of water we filled before it all ran out to drink, cook, water the dog, and flush the toilets. The boys missed their before school showers for two days and all of us were starting to feel pretty desperate. Without water, we were on the threshold of having to cancel the rental group that was scheduled to arrive that weekend.

Bomber spent all day Wednesday researching pump issues, making calls, staring at strange wires, and perhaps pulling out her hair. Finally, late in the evening, she got a promising phone call and headed back up the hill to the pump. At 10:30 that night, a gurgle sounded in one of our faucets causing me to dare to hope. Then Bomber marched through our doorway, a gleam of triumph in her eye. The pump was working! Later the next day she figured out the issue with the convection oven. It had been having problems at the same time as the power system. With a new wire installed, the convection oven started working again as well!

Madness, those two weeks were utter madness. With eight mechanical crises, that averages out to a crisis every other day. And yet, as we welcomed campers into the lodge during Summer Staff Winter Retreat it just felt so right. This was exactly what we were called to do. God’s plan, it was good. So good to see teens laughing, searching the scriptures, praying together, making friends, learning to trust God just a little bit more. And then as Scruffy welcomed the rental group into camp, helping them get their cars out of the ditch and showing them where to put their things, the rightness of this “simple” act of hospitality outshone the wrongness of the broken water pump, generators, snow plow, roof, pipe, and all of the many things that we must battle in order to live and work on this lovely mountain meadow.

So, are we called to a life of insanity? Yes, yes we are. That’s OK, because we are right where God wants us. We are in the front row, ready to see His glory up close and personal as He walks with us while things break and fixes seem impossible and campers lives are grown and changed all the same.

2 Corinthians 4:8-9

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

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We went to a funeral for my neighbor last month.

I’ve lived next door to him on this high, mountain meadow since I was eight years old.

We went to a funeral for the founder of the Bible Camp where my husband and I live and work.

I have worked at Camas Meadows Bible Camp since I was fourteen years old.

My husband has worked here for our entire marriage and then some, for the last 23 years.

We went to a funeral where two of our sons were pallbearers.

We went to a funeral for a man who started following the Lord after his fiftieth birthday.

We went to a funeral for a man who offered 20 acres to God, prayed, listened, and promptly retired to start a youth camp. Something he had no idea how to do.

We went to the funeral of a man who reached a hundred and four years … and truly lived every single one of those days.

We went to a funeral for my grandfather, Delbert Elmer Griffith.

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It starts in the undergrowth, leaves brightening as a chill comes to the autumn wind.

Turkeys come to graze on the camp lawn.

The quality of the sunlight changes as the days become shorter and the stars gleam bright in the clean, frosty air.

Elk bugle challenges in the early morning and meet to do battle with a crashing violence that echoes through the forest’s quiet.

The last of the wildflowers continue to bloom as the meadow turns to gold and the leaves brighten to yellow and red.

Frost paints the meadow with crystal, that lasts only moments once the sun crests the hills.

We catch rare glimpses of wildlife as they prepare for the long winter ahead.

Sunlight is a thing of magic in the chill of the morning.

The Tamarack (or Larch) brighten the sea of green as the only conifers in our forest to change hues with the coming of autumn.

Aspen leaves rustle in the wind, sounding almost like ocean waves upon a sandy shore.

I fall asleep with my window open, listening to the elk bugle. When I turn the generator on at 4:00AM to write, their haunting challenge welcomes the dawn.

The leaves do not change unless we get a soaking rain followed by the bite of frost. If conditions are perfect, the forest slips on her golden dress.

The firepit at the camp sits empty. But I remember the sound of children singing, reaching for God, finding love, sharing their hearts, rejoicing together. It feels like these aspens, that guarded this stretch of meadow during those long summer months, are celebrating all the God has done among us as they turn bright and golden in the autumn sun.

Soon, the elk will travel down the mountain and the leaves will fall. Many are not willing to live in the mountains, away from easy access to power, water, and a plowed road come winter. But how could I regret my front row seat to the beauty of God’s creation as it changes with every season right before my eyes. I am privileged beyond compare to live in the midst of such glory.

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