The Timberline Letter

The Narrow Door

Written by: Ed Chinn Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy In the early fifties, my parents and a few other young couples came together to form a new Pentecostal church in Pratt, Kansas. They bought an old one-room school building and moved it onto a corner lot in Pratt. Then Dad led the way through the design, renovation, excavation, and construction phases. When finished, we had suitable space for meetings, Sunday School, and a basement-level home for a pastor and family. My parents loved joining with others to help bring that church to reality. They poured themselves out for a dream, a call. And they did it with joy for a quarter century. The End of the Road But that golden season of church life came to a stop in the late 70s. I saw it when our family drove from our Texas home up to Pratt to spend a weekend with my parents. At some point during that weekend, Dad and I parked in front of that little church building and talked of the old days. Then Dad opened his pickup door, “Okay, now I want to show you something.” I followed him up the front steps. Dad pulled a tape measure from his overalls pocket and stretched it across the door. As he gazed at the tape, he kept shaking his head. “What’s wrong, Dad?” “A casket won’t fit through this door.” The words delivered a gut punch to the old way I had seen my dad. He was now a man facing retirement and regrets, feeling the sand suck away from his feet as the tide went out. My heart broke to think of him driving to the mortuary, asking to see caskets, and measuring them as he slowly realized none would fit through the church’s narrow door. I saw how disappointment entered his heart space. No sonic boom, just a slow-motion disintegration of a dream. This was serious. He and Mom had given so much. That place that had fostered the lives of farmers, ranchers, young families, the elderly, and other community members could not host a final celebration of those lives. The finish line had to be moved somewhere else. What did it all mean now? I watched as Dad asked one of life’s hardest questions. Dis-appointed Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language (1828) breaks “disappoint” down to “dis-appoint.” [1] A better job or home may have been “appointed,” but when it collided with facts, it was “dis-appointed.” Evicted, rejected, defeated. Disappointment doesn’t mean we calculated selfishly or foolishly. Sometimes it just reminds us that we are not the authors of life. We do our best, but our strength is limited; our vision is partial. In our incompleteness, we make choices, announce plans, and fill our calendars. Then life erases those “dates with destiny.” But perhaps what we lost wasn’t real life, but our small views of it. We’ve all heard—even from our own lips—that embarrassing, sometimes tragic phrase, “But I thought...” Disappointment can come to us as a gift, toppling small, unworthy, or lethal dreams. For example, it seems my biggest disappointments have involved damaged or dead relationships. But I can also see that if some of them had come to the result I preferred, I would not have met my Joanne ... or our kids or grandkids. My parents eventually came to the same place. After walking through the narrow places of preferences, severances, and measuring doors, they walked into a larger faith, wider vision, and unexpected grace notes. Life has a way of taking us beyond suffocating constrictions into the panorama of a new landscape. [1] Noah Webster, American Dictionary of the English Language (Foundation for American Christian Education, San Francisco, CA, 1828) The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe [https://timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

California Dreamin'

In 1957 my dad lost his job on the Rock Island Railroad. So did half a million other rail workers across the US. Since everyone expected a call-back of rail employees within a year, Dad wrote and phoned old friends, including other World War 2 vets, to ask if they knew of any temporary jobs. One of Dad’s ship buddies invited Dad to move to the Monterey Bay area of California, where he was building homes. Work was steady; his company was hiring. So, we moved from Kansas to California. An apartment overlooking the beach in Seacliff became our new home. For impressionable boys—I was ten and Vernon was seven (Carl had not been born yet)—Kansas was a suffocating 19th century monotone of dirt roads, grain elevators, barbed wire fences, sweltering summer heat, and blizzards in winter. California was California, a stunning technicolor vision of life’s best. Breathtaking beaches, the vast blue Pacific, redwood and eucalyptus trees, and the lush beauty of flowers splashing down the banks of freeways and across residential areas. Santa Cruz, Watsonville, Monterey, Rio del Mar, Aptos, and La Selva Beach marked the boundaries of our gorgeous habitation. Best of all, for the first time we had Dad really with us. In Kansas, when the Rock Island called, he vanished from our lives. But in California, he was home every evening and weekend. We liked this stranger; he took us places and played ball with Vernon and me in our own Field of Dreams. When Dad and Mom began talking about the possibility of staying in California, Vernon and I jumped like basketballs dropped from a windmill. We even looked at a home for sale, a beautiful, large, bright white home on a golf fairway in Rio del Mar. Just $14,000. Dad, Mom, please; we can be Californians! In the end, when the railroad called us all back to Kansas, we obeyed. The dream died. It was as it should be; we were not Californians; we were Kansas kids. California had just been a sweet dream. But that California adventure became part of my wiring. The wild contrast between Kansas and the expanse of California beauty—The Golden Gate Bridge, Pebble Beach, Sequoia National Park—became a magical metaphor of the possibilities that can roll out of any moment, situation, or relationship. Tomorrow can crash into now; the kingdom comes, health and wealth beautify people everyday, Heaven conquers hell. The new can pass through any portal—anytime, anywhere, anyone. No matter how dark circumstances may be, we can always look up. Despite the claims of negative voices, a new world may float down into your life. Right now. Walk in expectancy. As railroad crossings remind us, Stop. Look. Listen. Everywhere, every moment. Our California experience also became a fountainhead of The Timberline Letter. Because life’s soundtrack can swell from a lone piccolo to a full orchestra, we invite everyone to expect change. Look beyond the present, the parochial, and the parched. What do you have to lose? Do you think you will lie on your deathbed, wishing you had worked longer hours, obeyed more rules, conformed to more traditions, or tried to seize more control? Einstein asked one of the great questions: “Is the universe a friendly place?” You have the power to live the answer. Deeply, faithfully, eternally. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe [https://timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

California Dreamin'

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What Goes Around Comes Around

Written and Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy Our family cautiously approached the battle-scarred property. Giant oaks leaned precariously close to the house. The forest of longleaf pines had been ripped apart and scattered like a box of toothpicks. But the awe I felt for Mother Nature paled in comparison to the fear I had for Ron, the owner of this house. I knew the towering Vietnam veteran would never hurt me, but I also knew he could go scorched earth toward anyone he thought might be a looter. And he didn’t know who we might be; he had not seen me since I was a child. We rapped on the screen door. Ron doesn’t hide behind an iron gate—he is the iron gate. The door opened to two of my favorite people on the planet. Not my aunt and uncle, technically, but so closely tied through blood and belief that our families had bonded years ago. The last time they saw me, I was a kid. Now I came bearing a husband, four kids, chainsaws and loppers. Hurricane Helene had dealt a violent blow to south Georgia. Our task was not an easy one. Cutting down trees and building up burn piles were the least of my concerns. What concerned me was the knowledge that Ron, at 78, would not stop working unless my husband David did. How were we going to clear timber and brush without Ron working harder than his health could tolerate? Less than two weeks prior, Jeannette had gone through knee replacement surgery, but she still woke early, determined to cook breakfast. It was hard to gift them with a full work crew. On Sunday morning, they insisted on taking us out for a meal. Not a minor cost for a family of six. I was uncomfortable, but I feared declining their generosity more than I feared straining their fixed income. Back at the house that night, all the kids slept with bellies full of banana pudding and the bounty from the all-you-can-eat buffet. Us four adults sat around the kitchen table, silently negotiating how much giving and kindness we could live with. We wanted to complete another day of work; David couldn’t stand to return home with so much undone. I also knew Ron and Jeannette didn’t want to accept more help. So, I tapped the table and declared, “Look; we are all uncomfortable. We didn’t want you paying for our meal, and you didn’t want us working on your yard. So, I think we all just need to be okay with being uncomfortable.” A group chuckle revealed surrender by both sides. The next day, after working for several hours, we began loading our van. Ron and Jeannette gathered our kids and thanked each by name. The tears in Ron’s eyes added to his heroic stature. As we drove home, I told the kids the story of how, when I was an infant and my family of seven had no money for food, Ron and Jeannette filled our refrigerator and counters while we were away from our house. What goes around comes around. A life lived around our loved ones has a way of repeating itself. Within that framework, reciprocity is not a duty, but a natural result of loving relationships. As the Bible explains that cycle of blessing, “... give according to what you have, not what you don’t have. Of course, I don’t mean your giving should make life easy for others and hard for yourselves. I only mean that there should be some equality. Right now you have plenty and can help those who are in need. Later, they will have plenty and can share with you when you need it. In this way, things will be equal.” – 2 Corinthians 8:12-14 (NLT). The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe [https://timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

What Goes Around, Comes Around

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