Yellowstone, Galveston, Jesus

YELLOWSTONE NUKED

Noted naturalist John Muir dragged his roughened hand across the unearthly surface, across one of the serrated edges left behind when the Yellowstone River sliced through the soft rock eons ago. Later, those same fingers flew over the keys of his typewriter, and his brain nearly blew to pieces as he struggled to convey to others what he had seen.

"The walls of the cañon from top to bottom burn in a perfect glory of color, confounding and dazzling when the sun is shining,--white, yellow, green, blue, vermilion, and various other shades of red indefinitely blending. All the earth hereabouts seems to be paint..."

87 years later Yellowstone showed radically different colors. Reds and yellows - now more fierce than glorious - raced through its forests as the worst fire in recorded history threatened to ruin the park, particularly devastating a 660 acre section that has since gained the nickname "The Blowdown". Roy Renkin, a vegetation specialist for the National Park Service, put it this way. "It was just nuked. It looked like the bottom of a barbecue grill. The predictions were that it would be a meadow for centuries. People talked about how the soil was sterilized.”


GALVESTON RUINED

The Flagship hotel, perched on battered pylons off the Galveston shoreline, nowadays looks more like the victim of a wartime offensive than the swank vacation destination it once was. Mortar shells have apparently done their job on the ramps that once allowed patrons to drive off the seawall, over the beach, and into the hotel's parking lot. Looking up, you can see portions of the outer shell of the hotel have also been shattered. What was once an expensive suite now lies gaping open, its front wall obliterated. Graffiti covers what's left of the room's interior. A chain link fence surrounds the structure, warning most passersby away from what has become a dangerous area.

Later in the day, a barista in a downtown coffee shop answers a simple question.

"Are the meters outside free?"

"For now. Because of the hurricane."


JESUS DESPISED

"But they were insistent, with loud voices asking that He be crucified. And their voices began to prevail..."


YELLOWSTONE REBORN

The blowdown area, during the first winter after the fire, had the feel of an ancient ruin. Charred matchsticks that once were lodgepole pines stood like ruined columns in the cold snow. The place felt empty, the objects left behind suggesting that life had once existed here, but only in some distant past.

But this void didn't last long. The very next spring, as the earth began to warm, specialist Renkin saw a stunning change, what he called "the greatest wildflower show ever.”

“Boom! The purple lupine came out. Then the daisies would come on."

And so did the lodgepole pine. As it turns out, the tree produces what are called "seritonous" cones, whose seeds are buried deep within the cone's structure, and can only be released in the presence of severe heat, like that created at the center of a forest fire. Just after the fire it was noticed that seeds had scattered over the area, covering the devestation with something between 15,000 to 2 million seeds per acre.


GALVESTON NOURISHED

Some forms of seafood gumbo are based on an edible slurry known as a "roux", a mixture of oil and flour that is carefully heated until the flour toasts brown or red or black, depending on the skill and patience of the cook (it's not easy to sit idly by as the dish you've carefully nurtured gets darker and darker, hoping you haven't yet crossed the fine line from toasted to burnt...) The waiter at the Gumbo Bar, located in the middle of a ghostly section of downtown Galveston, sets a bowl in front of me that's full of shrimp, rice and sausage surrounded by a roux as black as any I've seen. I pick up a spoon, take a sip, and find my mouth filled with flavors that seem, at least today, to be living well together - the bitterness of the salty sea and the overpowering darkness of strong courage.


JESUS RESTORED

"Come up here and I will show you what must take place after these things... Day and night they do not cease to say, 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty, who was, and who is, and who is to come...'"

Lust vs Love

Her body, he had to admit, was strangling him. He watched her move, out of the corner of his eye, and burned like hard coal.
_____________________

He watched her move, sturdy as a lumberjack, stepping across the carpet then on towards the kitchen counter, only gently aware that she was, somehow, administering perfect medicine.

Big, Big Announcement

And now for a big announcement!

My novel "The Mostly Honest History of the City of God, Texas" has just become available for the Kindle and Mobipocket ebook readers!

The novel centers around Sonny Stevens, a modern day Texas farmer who has been hopin' for rain for quite some time. His way of coping with the stress of this lack of support from the heavens? Well, let's just say it's unique.

The novel sports the goings on of a host of wacky characters, from the beautiful pie baking of Maybell and Shirley to the testosterone-challenged Johansson place (having been blessed with twelve girls and not a single boy!) to the dirty financial dealings of Baron John.

The novel is funny, touching and if you're not careful, you might learn a little something, too!

So, you're asking yourself, how can I pick up a copy of this wonderful object?

If you have an Amazon.com Kindle, just go to the store and search for my name, "Will Woodard". The novel will pop up in the search screen.

You can also read the book on your laptop using the free Mobipocket reader. Here's how to set that up:

1. From an internet browser, go to http://www.mobipocket.com/en/DownloadSoft/ProductDetailsReader.asp
2. In the “Mobipocket Reader Desktop 6.2” section click on the Download button.
3. Save the file to your hard drive and run it.
4. Follow the directions in the Mobipocket Reader 6.2 Setup Wizard.
5. After it has installed, run the Mobipocket reader software.
6. The first time you run it, it will tell you there are no books to read. That's sad! To fix that terrible problem, click on “Go to ebook store”.
7. In the search box in the top right of the screen, type “Will Woodard” and hit enter.
8. You will see a picture of the cover of the novel. Double click on it and follow the instructions to purchase it.

I hope you enjoy the read. If you like it, tell a friend!
Thanks for your support and don't forget - Always pray for rain!

In the middle of a dense forest, crowded around by trees, I've learned I can still peer into the far distance. My view doesn't have to end at the stand of yellow aspens, or even at the careful scrutiny of their quivering leaves.

Creation's a riddle, with the potential to drive a careful observer mad.

How can there not be a creator?

Waking Up

In the morning, every morning, during the moments I first become aware of the grogginess that has soaked me during the night, I find myself struggling. It's as though I've caught myself in the act of dissolving, frustrated that I've allowed such negligence to continue.

Disoriented, I begin to wonder - Who's there?

At first, nothing seems to help. Stretching only mildly relieves the stiffness that has grown throughout the night, making me feel like I'm helplessly struggling against a spell that has nearly succeeded in turning me to stone. Rolling over isn't satisfying either - I know I'm just putting off the inevitable. Blinking doesn't help - the sky just keeps getting brighter and brighter and brighter, stinging my spirit as well as my eyes.

So every morning I lie there, encased in the haze of sleep, the quickly evaporating pleasures of drowsiness offering meager protection against the looming anxieties of the day. From this perspective - tangled in sheets, collapsed in an exhausted heap - nothing makes sense. Threats loom larger than they've rightfully earned. The normal protective force fields that I'm able to raise around me when I'm awake, sharp, and in full command of my resources can't be invoked - the internal switch that brings such forces to bear has faded into the night, and new armor hasn't yet hardened around me to take its place. I'm helpless, a baby in a crib, wondering if it's time to wail.

But the fact is, I do eventually wake up, every morning. A battle, not too far away, took place, and the night's dark magic was once again defeated, its dull hunger melting away the instant someone decided to be brave enough to try.

But who was that brave soul? Even though I’m now fully awake, I can’t help but continue to wonder…

Who’s there?

Kids and Arches

It sits on a huge desert plain, as calm and collected as a man looking off into the distance with his eyes closed. These 88 square miles of the state of Utah have been set aside as Arches National Park.

The flat terrain allows you views of rock arches of all shapes and sizes, scattered about in clumps, near and far, like families standing in an open field. Vegetation is sparse, as though the surface of the land is just recovering from a recent cleaning. The heat slows you down, forces you to conserve your efforts. When you do decide to speak, the wind blows your voice away from you, into the open sky.

Grown-ups allow the silence to put them into a reverent mood. Kids also play quietly here, rarely noticing anything higher than eye level.

God in the Woods

The path curves through the forest, right now leading me steeply down and to the right, curving around a rise that would have been too difficult to attack directly. It's clear this path isn't used often - it's barely worn, just enough to suggest a general direction. Random patches of weeds and grass snake across it, threatening to, at least eventually, pull the trail back into obscurity. And even though I've walked this way many times before, my feet haven't learned from the experience. They're never sure what to expect - a new jumble of roots, sticks and pebbles appears under each step.

Far above my head, the foliage has tangled itself into a dense web of green and brown. Sturdy trunks rise up to support the mass, lifting the covering into the air. This is the kind of scenery that moves by slowly. Patterns appear, then, moments later, reappear, only slightly modified.

I've been looking forward to a peaceful stroll through the woods for some time now. Goodness knows, I've needed it. The load at work was slowly wearing me down. The irritations that come from disagreements and conflicting desires were building up. My attention was becoming overwhelmed with traffic, bills, chores, errands. The world, it seemed, was scraping me raw, like an absent-minded carpenter sanding a poor, dumb piece of furniture while his thoughts were somewhere else.

So I left the house this morning with high expectations, sure that the gentle breezes, bird songs, and friendly beauty of the forest would work their magic, smooth the prickly bristles back down and help me return to a state of mind I'd enjoyed several times in the past, a state where I feel not just rested, not merely prepared to make my way through the next effort thrown at me me by the world, but fully rested, the peace of soul a good king might feel, sitting quietly on his throne after a full day of wise decisions.

But even kings have bad days. I've been walking for some time now and have witnessed a good share of richly colored vistas, heard plenty of bird songs. A mockingbird, throwing out an apparently endless string of copied warblings dazzles me through the sheer effort of his overlapping feats of memorization and performance.

But while I can certainly appreciate the technical brilliance of the bird's performance - I can barely believe that such a tiny being can hold such encyclopedic knowledge - in the deeper recesses of my heart, in the place where thoughts, like water slipping into vapor, turn into a kind of soft bedrock, I still feel weak and withered, as if I had foolishly wandered out into a desert, and haven't had anything to eat or drink for days.

I look up, and, expecting to find nourishment, I find only leaves.

And not just leaves, but something less than leaves, mere objects, things that have just happened along and, apart from any reason, have decided to alight here, bringing along only a physical presence and nothing more than that. The beautiful forest has gone dull, flat and blank, has become a tangle lacking even an evil purpose, existing, but not caring whether it trips me up or not.

But it cared the last time I was here, didn't it? I remember, clearly, the peace I felt, not so much hiking the path, but floating down it. My thighs always sting with the strain of a long outdoors stroll, but there are times when that strain seems not to weigh me down but to spur me on, brings on a confidence that things that would normally limit me, don't at the moment, that I can find the wherewithal to move on, even enjoying the burden of carrying my body across the frustrating, uneven surface of the earth.

But not today. Today my muscles have resisted every impulse to move forward and my heart is finding it difficult to understand why it's being asked to beat so hard. My body needs constant convincing, and, as much as I might hope to the contrary, I seem to have lost track of the point, too. It's flown away, pushing off a branch like a wild bird that's been eyeing the over-confident hunter all along.

This realization brings me to a halt. I stop, standing awkwardly in the middle of the trail, hearing breezes swirl in the treetops above me. The force of the wind pushes through the leaves, making them crackle for a moment. The sound is distant, like it's coming from a seperate world, one that I've only heard of in stories. The gust passes and the sound stops, leaving everything silent as if the surrounding oxygen had suddenly been sucked away.

Discouraged, I wander off the trail, distractedly kicking my way through ankle deep brush. I try, half-heartedly, to figure things out, but nothing occurs to me - I have to give up finding my own way through the woods. The only thoughts that remain are the leftovers of previous mental efforts. Bits and pieces lay scattered across my brain, like the floor of a child's room. I can see the phrases of a Psalm I was thinking through this morning, taken apart and rearranged in an attempt to make the syntax more clear.

"But You, O Lord...are my glory..."

That grafted together phrase didn't make sense this morning as I thought through its individual pieces - What is glory? I wondered. Astonishing beauty, perhaps. Furthermore, it says that the Lord is the source of any beauty I might possess. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see anything deeper than the words themselves - they comprised a couple of facts, listed one after the other, nothing more than that.

But now, surrounded by the rubble of other, failed beauties, my earlier expectations ruined, I'm beginning to see where the source of true beauty lies.

I turn around and slowly make my way back to the trail, continuing my train of thought. Unnoticed, somehow, the woods around me have begun to revive themselves, are working their way back to being beautiful again.

Three Climbers

You can get to the place shown in this photograph almost immediately from anywhere in Colorado Springs. Garden of the Gods City Park sits on the edge of town in no-man's-land, in an area that's neither as civilized as the city itself nor as wild as the nearby mountains.

A log fence on the edge of the main parking lot stretches along the north side, gently insisting on a single access point. The facilities here are well kept up and thoughtfully laid out. Visitors are given wide, paved paths dyed the color of the surrounding rock, suitable for sneakers and baby carriages. They tame the terrain beneath to a great extent, but can't help but follow the overall curve of the land - some stretches force you to trudge uncomfortably uphill, others pull you downhill a little quicker than you might like.

In spite of that you can move easily through this rough country. Native grasses cover the low hills on one side, dirt-orange slices of rock tower abover you on the other. Informational kiosks dot the landscape, and strengthen your understanding of the area by explaining the things that are going on beneath the surface.

But this is not the park's only entry point. From other parking lots you can see dirt trails that wind into the trees or disappear over a rise. The hike here is rougher. You're forced to watch your step as you pick your way over a rocky, steep incline and even, in some places, find something to grab as you cross a narrow ledge. Each trail seems to have a goal - an interesting rock formation, or a high point with a view. From here you can see the entire area. It's as cluttered as a child's toy chest. Off in the distance you can see the city, small and peaceful.

But climbers can only see rock. A small outcropping, just within reach, is carefully studied and gauged for strength, shape and grip. The climber makes a decision, takes hold, and trusts as he pulls himself up.