He leaves a trail behind Him; a pathway for His people to follow.
(Ps. 77:19)
Be still, and know that I am God.”
(Ps. 46:10)
Dearest Daughters,
In the spaces where our own noise quiets, we begin to hear the voice of the Creator. And when we hear Him, our hearts begin to reflect Him and to create.
We had just begun the long journey home after nearly a month in Chihuahua with the four youngest children. We had greatly missed the three oldest boys, who were not able to come this time. But Helen, we could not have been happier to have you and Isaac along—and of course, we will miss sharing daily life with you and your two wonderful babies!
After a long day of traveling through the Chihuahuan desert mountains, so stark, so wild, and truly beautiful in their own right, we arrived in West Texas. Kippy’s birthday had been two days before, and we had promised him we would do something special on the way home. So we decided to stop at the Guadalupe Mountains and go for a hike.
Evening was just setting in when we arrived, and a crisp chill settled over the high desert, drawing a frosty fragrance from the earth as we began to climb the rocky trail to a narrow canyon called Devil’s Hall.
Dad gave me the keys to the car in case Ari couldn’t make the full length of the trail. Then he and the three older children moved ahead at a quicker pace, racing the setting sun, while Ari and I clambered behind, getting derailed by every pretty rock, bug or unusual plant.
To Ari’s great delight, there was still snow on the trail—just patches, but some fairly big ones. He poked his little hiking pole into every one, experimenting with the crunch, the flake and the crack of snow already iced over. He shrieked with laughter at each new discovery.
“Do you know why this snow is here, Mommy?” he asked.
“Why?” I wondered.
“Because Jesus likes people to be happy,” he said, “and He put it here so we would be happy!”
That seemed like a perfect explanation to me.
He wanted his picture in the snow, so we took one. Meanwhile, your dad and the other children grew farther and farther ahead. Ari and I carved our names in the icy patches and poked holes as we went.
I showed him the yucca plants and explained how Native Americans had once woven baskets from their fibers.
“How did they do that?” he wondered.
I peeled back the green outer layer and showed him the beautiful white fibers underneath.
“Wow,” he said, “it already looks like a basket!”
Then we passed a dead yucca, and he frowned.
“Look what the Indians did to that one,” he said solemnly.
“No, winter did that,” I explained.
The trail grew steeper. Ari, gallant as a little gentleman, kept offering to help me up and down the rocks. I remembered how he’d melted my heart when he told me the day before, “If Daddy gets too far away, I will help you if you need help on the trail.”
But today he needed quite a bit of help himself. He was wearing cowboy boots, and the trail had grown slick with ice where the melted snow had refrozen. At times he crawled on his belly while I gently pushed him along like a little sled.
The sun began to dance across the rocky crags—deep purple shadows below, golden light on their peaks.
“Look where the sun has kissed the mountain,” I told him.
“Can a sun really do that?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, pointing with my hiking pole, “it looks like it to me.”
Just above us was a dark cave. “What’s in there?” he wondered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a mystery.”
He absorbed that with a nod.
Beneath the dance of the lengthening juniper shadows, the snow turned lavender, and the trail grew steeper still.
“Do you know if we’re on the right trail?” he asked.
“I do,” I said.
“How do you know?”
I knew he wasn’t asking about the interspersed sign posts. He wanted to know if this was the trail Daddy had taken.
So I pointed to a boot print in the snow.
“What do you think that is?”
With puckered brow, he stooped to study it. “I’m not sure.”
I placed my boot beside it and lifted it away.
“What did my boot just do?”
“It made a mark.”
“Now see those up ahead? Those are Daddy’s footprints.”
His eyes lit up. And he began stepping carefully into each one.
“I’m following the trail,” he said. “I still see his footprints!”
Then I noticed a small hole darkening the snow.
“What do you think that’s from?” I asked.
He stared—and then shrieked with delight.
“Daddy’s hiking pole!”
So we followed the marks of his boots and the points of his pole.
Eventually the trail became too steep for me to manage him and our gear, and the light faded more, so we decided to turn back. He was disappointed, but as we crested a ridge, the valley opened before us. Fifty miles of undulating desert lay bathed in pink light, like wine melting into the earth.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I said.
Quietly, he gazed out over valley far below.
Then he asked, “Mommy . . . why is it so quiet out here?”
And it was quiet. There is nothing like the desert to make you notice silence.
“It’s quiet,” I said, “because God makes places like this so people can hear Him.”
“I can hear God?” he asked.
“Yes, if you listen closely.”
He paused. “I don’t think I’m hearing Him.”
“Well, someday you will.”
“Like in a second?” he wondered.
“Maybe.”
Pulling his hood off his ears, he lifted his chin toward the crimson sunset.
“Let’s be quiet and see,” he whispered.
And standing there, motionless, he listened—far longer than I thought this lively four-year-old could.
Then breathlessly, eyes widening, he whispered:
“I think I hear Him . . . just a tiny little sound.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“Yes—but it’s not God. It’s Jesus.”
“That’s the same, son,” I said.
He nodded, pulled his hood back up and marched on with confidence, as if this were the most natural truth in the world.
As we neared the car, the sun slipped beneath the horizon, carrying the last color with it. The hike was over, but far more had been learned in those short hours than I could ever teach in a month of classroom lessons.
On the way up, he’d stepped on every icy patch, landing on his rear because he’d not known how slick it would be. But on the way back, he knew where to place his feet, avoiding ice, choosing broken snow or rocks. He knew when to slow down, when to move carefully.
The earth, the silence, and the quiet voice had taught him.
Don’t ever forget to listen. Don’t avoid the quiet places.
There is a voice waiting to be heard—and lessons that can be learned in one evening that might otherwise take a lifetime. There are footprints visible on those rocky ridges where the silence speaks.
Whisper in the Wind
I didn’t feel you there
‘til you caressed my hair.
You stirred up on the breeze
these dry and crumpled leaves
Whisked them up in play
And lofted them away.
I didn’t see your form
til you purged the sky of storm—
...a movement in the wind
that caused the dark to end.
And after you breezed past,
You left your print upon the grass.
I didn’t hear Your voice
above my heart’s own noise,
‘til your lamenting moan
matched up to my own,
...in the rattle of my pane
Until the morning came.
And then I knew You’d been
that whisper in the wind.
Love,
Mom