What Goes Around Comes Around

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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Messages in Bottles

Why would anyone write a note on paper, seal it in a bottle, and drop it into the ocean? Is it a romantic Hail Mary? A plea for rescue? A gesture of grief? Human ashes have been found in bottles washed up on distant shores. According to Guinness World Records, the oldest known message in a bottle drifted across the seas over 131 years before someone finally opened it.[1] In one way or another, they are all messages from isolated souls cast toward the vastness of existence—a whisper, a groan, a cry of triumph from one small voice in the cosmos. A recent article in The New Yorker explored the enduring fascination of messages in a bottle: A pen pal writes to someone. The sender of a message in a bottle writes to anyone. The wish, sometimes granted, is that the trajectory of the note is as ineluctable as the tides that carry it; that sucked into currents and pounded by the surf and tossed onto rocks and scorched by the sun, the message ends up exactly where it ought to be.[2] Most of us only encounter messages in bottles through popular culture—Nicholas Sparks’s novel (and movie), Message in a Bottle, or songs like Message in a Bottle or Time in a Bottle. But why do they linger in the imagination? Consider all the forces required to deliver one: currents, tides, buoyancy, storms, rocks, chance, timing, and the sharp eyes of beachcombers. Maybe that’s part of the enchantment. A message in a bottle feels both accidental and guided at the same time. So, why does all this matter? The Theater of God’s Glory For centuries, theologians, poets, and philosophers have wondered if human beings live inside a reality that is larger and more layered than we normally think. John Calvin called creation “the theater of God’s glory.” Many others see creation as a kind of language, something not merely existing, but listening and speaking. Perhaps that is why messages in bottles move us so deeply. They hint that unseen currents may shape more of life than we realize. So, why do so many miss that? I once heard Charles Simpson say, “There is seeing, and there is seeing.” What does that mean? Over time, Western cultures have increasingly viewed human beings as mere physical creatures moving through a material world. Yes, that perspective has brought some gains in science and technology. But it also flattened mystery, wonder, and largeness of spirit. Are We All Messages in a Bottle? Maybe we are more multidimensional than we appear. Do consciousness, memory, love, longing, imagination, intuition, hope spill beyond the physical edges of the self? Like a murmuration of starlings shifting shape across the evening sky, perhaps human beings are more fluid, connected, and mysterious than we know. Could that be why the image of a bottle bobbing in the sea feels so strangely personal and enchanted? Maybe every life is, in some sense, a message in a bottle. The book of Exodus shows the infant Moses being placed by his mother into a handmade basket and released to the river. From that moment forward, she controlled nothing—not the current, not the timing, not the destination. She simply entrusted her son to One larger than herself. Perhaps we all do something similar. We release our words, our work, our love, our wounds, our small acts of kindness into a future we cannot control. And somehow, some of them arrive where they were meant to go. Maybe we each carry seeds of eternal purposes, destined for people and regions far beyond ourselves. If so, maybe we should all walk more carefully, selflessly, and boldly. [1] https://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/oldest-message-in-a-bottle [https://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/oldest-message-in-a-bottle] [2] Lauren Collins, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” The New Yorker, May 4, 2026. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/05/04/signed-sealed-delivered#rid=570a63de-51fb-41a2-b9cc-66771768506d&q=lauren+collins [https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/05/04/signed-sealed-delivered#rid=570a63de-51fb-41a2-b9cc-66771768506d&q=lauren+collins] 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]