from the fourth of july

these are just some pictures of the moon i took on the fourth of july. we had a fire, hot dogs, and some beers in the middle of the kaibab national forest. it felt good to sit in the moonlight and have the light shine on my face. i've had that experience very few times. it's good to be somewhere that gets so dark.

these are the days of miracle and wonder

so we woke up in the morning at oak creek canyon and decided that hiking in sedona was a death wish. temperatures rise above 100 degrees, there is no shade and the sun feels like an annoying mosquito that won't leave you alone. rather than go into sedona, we spent the morning hiking in oak creek canyon. it was one of those mornings, one of those walks, when i was sure that the presence of God never left me. although it's becoming more and more clear to me that God's presence is everywhere - whether you like it or not. it really is just a matter of us stopping and slowing down to recognize it. waiting. the group hurried ahead, while i stayed back, probably miles behind them most of the time. taking my time, stopping at flowers, and butterflies along the creek. i've decided that hurrying may be one of the greatest sins. i'm no longer really worried about the sex stuff, or the drinking or the drugs - i'm worried about people who hurry. people who run, when they should stroll, who race when they should go slowly - i'm more worried about people who don't stop for butterflies, who don't gasp at the sight of the color blue in nature, who aren't stopped in their tracks by a little flower. if we define sin as what separates us from God, then i don't think it's ridiculous to say that hurrying and rushing are among the greatest of sins.

shade / water / little things

these are some pictures from oak creek canyon. it's the canyon before sedona. you should google sedona, i didn't take any pictures while i was there because we didn't do any hiking so all of the pictures would have been from the road and stupid. we had a pretty good time - the canyon is absolutely beautiful, and luscious, and green and there's streams and beautiful flowers and life. nothing like the arizona most people picture. it felt good to get my feet wet and walk in the creek. we camped that night under more than a billion stars. there was hope that a group of christians that appear to have nothing in common could be a community that night. so i fell asleep happy, with holy expectancy of a new day.

i just know i have to be there alone

the first picture was taken through my car window - so excuse some of the dead bugs that you might be able to see.

in yavapai cafeteria using the internet. these are some pictures on the road from flagstaff to the grand canyon. i'm really grateful that i got these pictures - it seems like every time i'm on the road, i try to get some that i think can capture how beautiful it is. during sunset, to the right i see the san francisco peaks turn purple. to the left, i see the sun setting over the flattest landscape i've ever seen. in the distance, even, i can see it starting to illuminate the distant rim of the canyon. the sun turns my hair gold, like the desert brush turns the same shades of yellow, gold and auburn. like most warm desert nights in any part of the world, the sun setting comes as a relief, of sorts. i can remove my sunglasses and my broken air conditioning isn't bothersome anymore. i almost exclusively listen to iron & wine when i'm driving this road. sort of as an homage to my friends, but also because nothing else feels as right as the sort of grungy banjo and steady beats. like everything else i do here, the road seems like a sleeping ghost of memories of people and conversations and feelings. my time here, now, has brought much more solitude and independence so there's plenty of room for those memories. i feel very free in my time here alone - not lonely at all.

it's a good time for superman to lift the sun into the sky

i went to see the imax the other day, because it was free... and because it's awesome. in the movie they describe the grand canyon as a "scar" on the earth. this is something that i've thought about - a lot - before. the grand canyon as a huge, gaping scab on the face of the earth. i was walking around one of the camp grounds and one of the girls asked me why i had come back to the grand canyon. this seems like an obvious question, but i took a few seconds to think about it for the first time. i told her that the grand canyon is continually such a spiritually rich place for me - and mostly this is because the canyon, itself, is this constant reflection of so many things to me. recently i've been meditating more and more on what the grand canyon is. and what i've realized is that it is me. that i am it. we both have scars, big ones and little ones, ones that cut deep like the main canyon, and others a little less deep and severe like the side canyons. but regardless, all have been cut with the ugliness of time, experience and the severing of bonds and relationships. all, regardless of how deep or how painful are what make the grand canyon... grand. the canyon has been carved by thousands of years of erosion, breaking away, falling apart and it is beautiful because of this. the bible echoes this theme, so much, in the psalms it says that God requires of us a broken and contrite heart / we have jesus, himself, broken bread / or even the ripping or breaking of the curtain / and many other examples of God desiring our brokenness. the reality is that we're all broken, a mess, rock and dirt and dust and erosion, so the only question then is: will we embrace these scars, breaks, cracks and canyons as beautiful? or will we, like most tourists, pass by them for a few moments and then move on to the gift shop to get a grand canyon pencil or pen? are we afraid to get lost in the darkness, desolateness, the isolation of the canyon walls / of ourselves? will we explore it, or just sit on the edge of it?

there is no song sweeter than the song you sing to me

i had most of the day off, besides a class on radio etiquette in the morning. i took the small hike (maybe only a 1/2 mile?) to shoshoni point. it's a private point, not "open" to the public or marked on any map. so, in most ways, it's the only place on the rim in the national park that you can actually be alone. even most of the "locals" don't know where it is or how to find it. the walk up to the point was unbelievable - the canyon, in general, can feel like such a dead place. rock, sand, dust, dirt - erosion, hot sun, trees that look like crippled men and the faint smell of fire everywhere. this morning i was shown, and reminded of, the delicate balance of life and death in this place. there were moths - moths - everywhere. beautiful ones, dancing, fluttering - everywhere. along with the moths came the wild flowers that stood in an awesome juxtaposition of the dead-looking, and actually dead trees. as i was walking to the rim, i kept thinking about the idea of God giving us enough. the flowers, the moths, were just enough today - just enough life, just enough color. i think in pittsburgh i wouldn't have noticed them because there's so much life, water, color and green / but here, in this high desert, there's just enough color, just enough life, and water and shade - never too much. but always just enough.

every moment, i believe, carries the hidden possibility of a word coming from God. is there any moment, any event through which God does not speak? one autumn you see a flock of geese migrate over your house. you wake up to rain spattering on dark bedroom windows. you read a poem. a child reaches for your hand. you see someone on the street. you meet a friend in a shopping mall. and in the midst of them you recognize the sound and touch of God . . . or you do not. that is His gentle, noncoercive way of coming to us -- always coming. - sue monk kidd

all secrets and lies / let them out

the more pictures i take of the grand canyon, the better i get at it. the better i get at it, the more i realize that i will never actually be good at it. i mean, that's the point of this huge hole in the ground, anyway. man can't have it, own it, capture it, know it. it doesn't work. it still remains largely unexplored and also incredibly deadly. people are dying here all of the time. i guess being here is this constant reflection of so many obvious life lessons / mainly ones of biblical proportions. i guess this is my lame attempt at some sort of update. and so this is what i have to say about life here, a second time around. firstly, i miss my friends, a lot. i miss our times here - their ghosts are everywhere. i can't get away from them, most of the times, and i'm okay with it. every beautiful thing here seemed better when shared with them. trying to feel communion with the group here this summer is very difficult for me. hopefully in time, that'll change. my job is fantastic - i like the front desk, i like the music they play, i like my co-workers, i like the actual job. much better than the gift shop. i'm still adjusting to the uniform and shoes that hurt my feet. other than that, everything else is just okay. everything is slower. there's a rhythm that makes sense to me: work, walk, eat, walk, friends, walk, sleep. you find your problems follow you though. you follow, not the person you wanted you to be in the new place. that's okay. if you felt distant from Him in pittsburgh, you probably still will at the grand canyon - only you might feel more guilty about it when standing on the edge of one of the wonders of the world. i'm learning to play the piano again and hopefully the guitar. there's a lot to be learned about christianity, christian community and jesus through your frustrations with it. i left a city, a community, a group of friends who were progressive, smart, thoughtful and serious. i moved here, to find a lot of the things i hate about christianity and christian community. sometimes it seems like a stupid move because of that - why go back? why revisit the conversations, the fights, the arguments, the anger? i guess i'm still idealistic enough to believe that both sides still have things to teach each other - that, on both sides of the fence, there are still things to be learned here.