off to work we go.

We trudge through the tall river weeds humming, “hi ho, hi ho,” in our heads, for it is off to work we go. It is not a loud, bustling job we endeavor at, but it is always outside, and so keeps our senses alive. We’ve come to survey the land. It is true that many have failed in their attempts to conquer the outdoors, and while we conquer it not, we must measure it. Man would own all this. We would see him own the right parts.

I am not sure if it is noble, what we do. But I am certain it is not wrong.

While it can be dull at times, I find it is a vibrant setting for the imagination. Many a knight has ridden by and bidden me a fine day, wishing me sunny skies while I waited for father to finish thinking. He, that is father, is awfully clever at the thinking bit. Much as I nod along with his mathematical mutterings, and amuse myself that I think along too, I haven’t the mind for it. And most times I accept the truth—I am only present for manual labor.

Once I’ve accepted my role though, I am at peace with it. Either way, I snootily conceive that the company I provide is a little better than the lack of it I do not.

This morning we trudge. It’s the swamps of the Missouri River bottom which they have called us to and it is vital, father says, that we keep our feet dry. Not freezing out, but when we stop moving the wind reminds us of our proximity to Christmas. Late December never was too warm in these parts.

Hi ho, hi ho.

Father paces along the river bank, with cold, lulling waters eight yards below. I chat with the lost pirates who ran aground near St. Louis over two weeks ago. They are rather grumpy after their extended foot-journey, but I offer them a bit of the lunch in my knapsack and they cheer up. I don’t ask where they are headed. I have learned not to inquire about such things. No doubt their quest involves treasure. And so does ours, in its own way.

I often equate our looking and digging to a treasure hunt. For we stop trudging only to search out buried landmarks every thousand feet, give or take some hundreds and a few mathematical specifics. Through the years I have learned to feel a deep excitement when we unearth old surveyor stones and irons—I can now say it is comparable to the thrill of finding a chest of doubloons. As a child my sentiments were slightly different.

The sky begins to tuck the sun into bed for the evening and we only just finish our last search. It is a faint tune now—exhaustion quiets us sweetly—but our heads fill again with the song of dwarves.

Hi ho, hi ho.

But now, it is home from work we go. And that is the best part of it all.

untitled.

But you, Bethlehem Eprathah,

Though you are little among the thousands of Judah,

Yet out of you shall come forth to Me

The One to be Ruler in Israel,

Whose goings forth are from of old,

From EVERLASTING…

Then the remnant of His brethren shall return…

He shall stand and feed His flock…

And this One shall be PEACE.

-Micah 5

Sometimes there are not words. Only thoughts between heartbeats. Impossible to pen, these. I will not try. I will sit and turn this over and over softly inside—this One shall be PEACE.

Peace.

And He did not take it all with Him when He went away.

Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you.*

Like the song of angels amidst shining glory—on earth PEACE.**

Peace.

*John 14:27

**Luke 2:14

forms of feet phobia.

We won’t touch our own toes. Some form of feet phobia. When the cold sets in we thrust them so close to the fire we nearly catch flame to wool socks. Don’t ask us about it, we get disgruntled saying it all out loud. But truthfully, we steal each other’s socks. And we make a rude fuss over other’s toes. Won’t admit it, but we do.

One evening we spent fourteen minutes scrutinizing Miss Won’t-Say-Her-Name’s toes. She might as well have been entirely made of toes for how we put the judgment on her. And Mr. Can’t-Mention-Him’s been a nasty topic of conversation for months now. But that’s all hush-hush. Not a one of us would confess to how we feel about his toes, except to all besides him.

Thing is, we’re more comfortable critiquing the toes of others because we feel stupid about our own. Stupid, secretive, or just plain in-denial.  That is where the cold comes in—reminds us we’ve got toes at all. And the bother they are, but we keep them warm anyway.

Cross-our-heart truth, we know we should be fine to deal with our own toes. But the facts don’t help. We’d rather cover them up—pull on other people’s socks and then talk about So-and-So’s dreadful toes. Not ours.

It’s the feet phobia is all. Most everyone’s got it, so we don’t worry much.

think.

“There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are naught without prudence… Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.” –Edward Whymper, Scrambles Amongst the Alps

How does one recover from the realization—slow or sudden—that the dreams of the soul, though wild and great, were too eloquent? Most face this wound of realism. If not in the failures and unplanned turns of life, then in the suddenness of death. I was to do more. Be more. And oh, how faint this footprint next to the depths of my supposing.

Is there any true peace in our ever meager existences?

If we are good we roam the woods and explore religions in search of it. If we are great we rule the cities, running from it. If we are selfish we defy it. And if we love well we often feel it. Though rare is the heart still enough to abide within it.

My life seems so very long to my naïve senses, but has been short thus far. I know little and have done even less. I am made un-revolutionary simply in being—nearly nonexistent are the chances that I will have an original thought in my entire lifetime. Any grand plans I concoct or epiphanies I document will have already made a show of it in one of the centuries, if not in all of them. I am almost certainly doomed to irrelevance on this earth. They say, “Make a mark” just to help me feel better I guess. As though the odds were in my favor.

So might I at least be granted some peace in my handful of years? A little joy to curb the disappointment of imitation? Perhaps a reasonable serving of love to make the journey worth laughing along?

Yet chaos and loneliness are mine in cycles so long as I roam here. The peace is a reaction—a digging into a foundation rooted on other shores. And one day, Lord help me, I will arrive there, freed at last from the perseverance required of my peace-seeking kind. Yet it is a celebratory event which I must, at times, discipline myself to anticipate.

Because I love the fight. Don’t we all? History sighs, “thank God, they admit it.” Yes, we do.

If we fight for the love, the joy—it is sweeter. And if we crawl up a mountain to get at the peace maybe the more is ours to have. Surely so, we settle on. Seems logical. Then we’re off. If we’re not careful, a whole life flits away—climbing perpetually. Not to say, do not climb. Just to say, think. Pause. Reconsider perhaps. As if there weren’t enough sad dead to call to us in cautioning.

What is the end, peace-searcher? Do we see distant shores or do we scramble up without prudence? Who do we bring along on the good journey? And who have we slighted or ruined in the bad? Don’t fool yourself. The love, joy, even the peace, are temporarily re-creatable. But man, I promise you, cannot abide within such falsehoods. He can merely hide behind them.

Recovery seems to come with the acceptance that laughs. When we say, “alright, me, you were a little too ambitious.” It doesn’t have to end the journey, it just makes it doable.

Look well to each step. Think.