Same path, same camera pausing again, this time to capture a curled leaf, each serration salted with rime.
Nearing the pond, I listen for ducks.
But my viewfinder zooms in on mats of algae, flash-frozen. Glazed and rumpled, here is weather’s awkward marriage of wind and degree.
Friends, I love this trail
meandering through
our neighbor’s woods, where,
with their permission,
I gratefully roam.
Only a week ago,
I traversed it on snow shoes—
which is why today,
after the thaw, I falter.
A rusty, misshapen bicycle someone recently abandoned rivets my gaze.
Whose is it?
Beyond, I see the old metal gate—jackknifed open—first time in 29 years.
Then . . . something blue: a child’s scooter, flung down in the grass.
And the ramshackle shed, ever-padlocked, now gapes.
I snap photos. Inch past the scooter. Two rooms with a plywood partition beckon.
In the first room, wheel spokes,
clogged with pine needles—another bike
hunkering amid castoffs: a cracked
Kool-Aid pitcher with its retro grin,
jumble of crockery, blackened tools.
It smells like rust and silt and disappointment.
Can you hear the sinister soundtrack? “Turn back, now!”
A campy movie comes to mind: “I saw something nasty in the woodshed.”
Stifling a shiver, I ease
into the second room.
From ten penny nails,
four human-sized
sacks of black netting sag.
Glint of an eyeball.
A crooked neck.
My breath stutters.
A gulp. A step backward.
A shake of the head, to clear it.
And then, that pesky resolve to know.
I edge forward, peering through gloom.
Duck decoys. Four bags full. Cork versions meant to lure real ducks into settling on the neighbor’s pond.
I too feel lured in. Fooled, and foolish. Relief is a long exhale, a shaky laugh.
O, the lure of the unexplained. Eavesdropping on a forgotten life. Lurking enigmas. Secrets.
We tread the familiar, by rote, sometimes for decades. And one day somebody wrenches open a gate. Someone leaves behind woebegone relics, evidence of a story.
Similarly, there are locked rooms in my heart, littered with ghosts. Misleading notions. I harbor substitute emotions disguising something I don’t want to face.
I am sharply aware, in this moment, of simmering jealousy within, masquerading as applause for a colleague’s recent success. I’ve stuffed it away, feathered my envy with feigned goodwill. This is how I lure myself into believing I’ve mastered festering disappointment.
The Old Testament prophet Hosea heard God say, “I will now allure her. I will lead her into the desert. There I will speak tenderly to her.”
And isn’t this a kindness, after all, being led forward? Braving the musty, looking within, naming what’s still lurking inside the sack?
I head home: same path, same camera, no longer quite the same me.
Tell us, how do you interpret Hosea’s enigmatic words?
You might also enjoy: Constancy: The Tale of a Trail
Woodshed quote from Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons.
Laurie, your poetic words flow like liquid honey even when they’re describing hard things. I’m lured by their soothing resonance and drawn in by the sense of calm they evoke. I love how curious you are and how your inspiring, imaginative descriptions fuel our own thoughts. Having been in several deserts over the years, I’ve definitely needed some alluring from the Lord to entice me to enter and remain for as long as it might take. With the benefit of hindsight we gain a different perspective and begin to see how such times are vital for growing spiritual resilience and maturity in us. A hidden treasure found mostly in life’s dark places because they are also lit with God’s glorious companionship and grace. May you be blessed with the riches He desires to grow in you as you yield to the desert’s scorching heat. And we will continue to enjoy the beautiful fruit it produces in your heart and words. Love and hugs! xo
Dear Joy, lovely to hear from you here. Thank you so much for joining us. I’ve missed your presence.
I love the way you describe, from your own challenging journey, the light of God’s presence and grace accompanying us—especially as we grope our way forward through dark times. Sometimes it’s hard to feel that presence is real . . . the perfect time for a fellow pilgrim to remind us it’s so.
Blessings on you, my friend. Sending love across the pond . . .
It is in the place of none else, that He remains.
It’s a scary place.
I was recently on an operating table with an infection racing to consume as much of my body as possible.
It was scary.
But I had to lay down and let others take control.
I couldn’t do anything else but.
It was in that place that healing was able to continue and go deep.
Deeper still.
That is what I think on when reading this post and scripture.
Thank you for adding to the healing.
And you take us there, with your words, Rick, into that place of consuming peril and fear, then into the yielding. I am so relieved you are still with us! I am grateful God spared you, and all those who love you. And I am awed at the depth of your experience and trust, relinquishing all to God and those charged with your care. All praise to the Great Physician and boundless mercy!
“Therefore, I will speak tenderly to her.”
The wonder of that promise. Our Lord will lure us to Himself and speak tenderly to us. A padlocked shed broken open. Simmering jealousy exposed. Words, tenderly spoken. Restoration… that is how I interpret Hosea’s words.
Roberta, with a word, you’ve deepened my understanding. While I’ve counted on God’s tender words of intervention as a concept, a precept, it’s only now that I’m seeing it as a promise. More wonderment! Thank you, friend.
As always, Laurie, your prose reads like poetry, each clause and phrase worth savoring for the striking combinations of words you string together and the depth of meaning expressed. As for mastering festering disappointment, I have a feeling it takes a lifetime. Just when we think the thorn of jealousy has been vanquished, up grows another one! Praise God for his encouragement to cast all our cares on him–including envy. (Like a fly fisherman, I have to keep casting sometimes!)
Nancy, thank you. And not just for the compliment. You hold out consoling perspective so effortlessly. I love that about your blog. I love that about YOU.
One thorn after another. Wow. I sense an image (and vicarious wince) of inflamed gums, those small, piercing cusps and tubercles of molars erupting.
And then the fisherman: Your metaphor chimes for me. I never tried fly fishing, but I have so often admired the science and dance of its gestures. Here’s to wading in, continuing to cast a line . . .
Thanks for taking us on your adventure, and for the glimpse of shared humanity. It is a wonder that the revealer of our secrets is our healer, in the same instant.
Diane, delighted to have you along! :>) I felt like I’d stumbled onto a movie set . . . in my own backyard. Well, technically it’s the neighbor’s property, but I’ve loved those acres so long, I feel a sense of ownership.
Maybe that makes owning up to what God exposes a little easier. I love the way you express the immediacy of depth and breadth in God’s healing reach for each of us.
Well, you’ve intrigued me to head to Hosea for a more careful reading. The desert (dry, empty) does not seem like a good place for a lesson…but clearly God has His ways.
Thank you for this vivid glimpse along the trail of your own discoveries, Laurie.
Yes, it sure runs counter to my human notions. But then so does the marriage between Hosea and Gomer. Talk about obedience, surrender, and heartbreak.
Along the trail, vivid or drab, literal or cyber, I am always glad for your company, friend.
I look forward to reading your writings. They calm my soul in this fast past world.
Thank you,
Rob.
Rob, I’m so grateful for the gift of your time and attentive reading today. Thank you for choosing (and naming!) this space as an oasis amid the whirl. May it always be so!
Sometimes being led into the desert is terrifying. The words of tenderness are not given at every step. Being alone is real. So when God does speak it is more, so much more, than can be imagined. Must be the way the disciples felt when after three days–THERE HE WAS, ALIVE.
Yes, oh, everything in me is nodding yes. We sense the call toward what seems to us sheer wasteland, and the unknown, the withheld Voice. It IS terrifying and frustrating and shattering. Achingly true. Both sides of it, as you describe: the searing silence / the kindly, heartening word; the lone terror / the bowl-me-over, miraculous reappearance.
And how to navigate the waiting . . .
I’m pondering something I read this morning in My Utmost for His Highest: “If you are going to be used by God, He will take you through experiences that are not meant for you personally at all. They are designed to make you useful in His hands, and to enable you to understand what takes place in the lives of others.”
Deep breath. Renewed surrender. Everything in me—by grace—nodding yes.
Thank you, Susan. For each word, and for the image, perhaps, for some of us, remote at present, THERE HE WAS, ALIVE . . .