The Masterpiece

I have always been in awe at the display of God’s creative power. I have found myself standing slack jawed at the artistic work with which he displays daffodils at the first sight of spring. I love the array of azaleas in a Charlestonian April, the cobalt blue of the sky in the heat of the summer, and the Appalachians in the fall. Everywhere you look the creative artistry of God is present.

I always felt that I had a healthy appreciation of the beauty in the nature of things around me. I find myself marveling at the cooperation of a hive of bees, busy working together for a common cause. Knowing somehow instinctively that none of them can accomplish alone what all of them can accomplish together. I sat and watched as my flowers change from wilting to full attention, when given water to quench their thirst from the summer heat.

I have, I believe witnessed a great deal of the variety of God’s artistic creativity, and have had an appreciation for it; that is until I went to Alaska. Never in all my dreams could I have imagined such a place, colors as bright as the sun, mountains as high as the stars, snow so pristine it looked as if it would break when you if touched. It was a world full of beauty and contrast. Golden yellow birch trees contrasting against the evergreen of the spruce, rough jagged mountains coated with the softness of snow. Fast flowing rivers so shallow as to barely get ones feet wet when wading through them. It’s a world of beautiful contrast’s.

While I was there, the group of us camped at the base of the Gakona glacier, a river of ice that moved at the rate of 1.5 inches a year, winding its way through the valley depositing tons and tons of silt into the valley below. Contrast’s; white snow laden glaciers, depositing gray-green silt into the valley.

Clear-calm skies, all of the sudden in moment turning into gale force winds that all but blew everything we had away. The full moon rising on one side of the valley while the sun setting on the other. Stars appearing so close as to be able to touch them. Alaska truly is a place where the creative power of God can be experienced like no other. It truly is a place of beauty and contrast.

As I sat in those mountains over those weeks I pondered the prospect of our creation. A human being located in this isolated spot in this remote place on the planet. And I thought, “in comparison to all of this, we human beings really are insignificant.” Except; for the contrast’s. Surely the mountains are taller, and the sun is brighter. The flowers are more colorful, and the trees are more majestic. And while we may occupy only one area of this beautiful creation of God, our feeling of insignificance really lies within us. ----- Because the glacier is not created in the image of God. The mountains are not created in the image of God. The flowers, and trees, the valleys and the snow are not created in the image of God. So while I stood there in this vastness of God’s creation, I realized that “no” I am not insignificant to all of this, but I, as a human being am the most significant thing here, for I am an image bearer of the artist. I am his signature at the bottom of the masterpiece. I am a card carrying authentic original for which there are no others.

As I read and re-read the creation story of God in Genesis, I saw that God said that it “was good.” Then he created animals and said it “was good.” He created birds and fish, trees and plants and for each of these he said it “was good.” Then we find in the last part of chapter one where God created humans in his own image and said “it was very good” the exclamation point on creation. The signature at the bottom of the masterpiece: was you.

I see people all too often who undermine their importance to this world, people who forget just whose image they bear. People who watch a rose form from a bud and wonder; “am I as intricate as this?” I see people whose imagination is their only hope of discovery; whose dreams remain only a nightly occurrence. People who ponder their worth and simply forget they are image bearers.

Nothing else in all of creation is as valuable to God as you are. “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not more valuable than they?” Jesus tells us in Matthew chapter 6. Because when it is all said and done; Jesus did not die for the snow covered mountains, he was not nailed to the cross for the daffodils, or the rose. His resurrection will not alter the fate of the glacier. ----- He died for his most precious of creations; YOU. The signature on the masterpiece, The exclamation point on creation. The most valued of all there is.

I had never thought about that before, oh I new we were created in the image of God, I understood that we were important to him, and that we were treasured. It just seems sometimes that God takes special care, at certain moments of our lives and says; “hey, don’t just read about me, but listen to me.” It is God’s careful intentional wake up call to all of us. I believe God does that for us all from time to time. I also believe some of us choose not to listen. As I stood there in the valley of the Gakona glacier, somewhere in Alaska, I knew that I was important to God, the insignificance I felt looking at all those beautiful snow laden mountains, was really an admiration of his artistic ability. It was the thesis statement for which human beings are the punctuation. It was an intrinsic reality that I am an image bearer of the creator, the signature on his masterpiece.

I believe all of us carry the same importance in God’s eyes. All of us share that place on the canvas that tells all who look, who we are. We share a place in history, a moment in time, a significance to the creation, for we are the image bearers of the artist.

The Box

Today, like many days, I traveled the winding mud soaked path that led to my workshop. I had something that needed to be done and it could not wait; a few days before I inherited a box from my father. This was no ordinary box, this was his box, and I was eager to see what had long been forbidden, what was so captivating, so private, so personal. Now, though it was mine, at least in possession, but I desperately wanted to make it mine. His recent passing made the walk all the more solemn.

For years I had admired this box from afar. We all knew all too well to actually look inside. It sat atop his dresser and contained his treasures. Treasures that today would loose their mystique and become reality.

I felt my feet slip as I open the door into the familiar darkness that was my workshop; everything had it place in this chaos that I called order. Fumbling for the light switch, I quickly tried to remember where everything was on the floor before the lights revealed their domain. Fearing that my memory was not as accurate as I hoped, I froze my advance as my fingers searched the breaker box for the appropriate switches that would reveal my sanctuary.

Moving over to my work bench I searched for a place for the revealing, moving scraps of old sandpaper, a broken screwdriver, and with the reverence of a minister consecrating the elements at the Eucharist, I gently lay the box on the bench.

The box hailed from an old hardware store, once used as a catalogue for credit references. It appears to be made of pine, but I am not sure, its dark finish is crackling with age. As I hold it to the light I can see that the finger joints are tight. The hinges are small and the lid is a perfect fit. I marvel at its craftsmanship, and I wonder about its maker. Did he know that this simple box would mean so much to someone so many years later? Could he have known that many decades later his simple box would reveal a lifetime of someone we never really knew at all? Nevertheless, here it is, and it is mine now.

Emotions race through my veins, I fight to hold back tears and rage as memories of a childhood flash before my minds eye. Slowly, I raise the lid of this cryptic tomb to reveal things whose meanings are as lost as my memory. Old pocket knives honed beyond practical use, business cards whose color remind me of my wife’s sun tea revealing his previous jobs and previous failures, cuff links with trains on them, tie clips as broad as a tongue depressor. And an old black and white picture of my mother. There was a change purse, and one tarnished 50 cents piece. I never knew why he always carried the 50 cents piece, but he always had it with him. I wish now I had asked.

The evening turns into night as I respectfully exhume each relic from its place. One by one I removed them from the box; each telling its own story of someone we called Dad, but never really knew. Some items brought back memories of the house we lived in, the smell of Sunday morning apple turnovers, and a happy time, while others brought only recollections of missed opportunities.

I placed them on my workbench in some sort of order, lining them up by size and function as if this would reveal the reason these were saved. Was it intentional that these items were in here or was it by accident? Why these cuff links? Why this change purse? He had always carried a change purse, in fact he was the only man I knew who did, I recall him going though several through my life with him, why was this one saved? What is the significance? As I struggled to make sense of these mementos, I realized that I would never fully understand. He was gone now, perhaps Mom could explain, perhaps she had some insight into the randomness of his treasures. Were they really treasures at all, or were they simply afterthoughts, items whose function had faded with his smile, and whose memory was lost in his stroke laden brain. Perhaps all I really have is a time capsule of a life that meant nothing to so many, and everything to so few.

Nevertheless it is mine now; it is a safe place for my treasures and afterthoughts. A place my children will look at in wonder and amazement. It is a place where dreams are kept safe, lives are interned and wonderment abounds.

I have already been collecting for this day; I too have some old knives of my own to place in here. There are collections of rocks from places I have visited, business cards from long lost jobs, and careers gone haywire. Items that to anyone else would be called junk at best, but to me are priceless. There is the casing from the bullet used to kill my biggest deer. A father’s day card signed by all five of my children, there is the lure used to catch my biggest fish, and a picture of my oldest son on his first hunt. I will also place some items that for no good reason have to have a home. There are 5 $2.00 bills, collected before I knew how many I would need. Some handmade wing-bone turkey calls and a couple of knives I made years ago. I have already envisioned how they will fit and where they will lay.

My mind is drawn back to the box, as I lay it on the workbench. With all of its beauty, it needs a new bottom, and today I am going to make one for it. Carefully taking measurements so it will fit snug, I gingerly cut and place the bottom in this box, wondering if its original maker would approve of my work.

I stand there for the longest, and wonder, my mind rushes to the day my children walk the mud soaked path to the workshop to remove this battered old box from its hiding place. I envision a ceremony of sorts, as they all gather around the supper table with their children and reveal my capsule. I see my oldest removing item after item, telling stories and hearing the laughter and seeing tears as they recount another moment from my life. My only hope is that the laughter will be honest, and the tears will be of joy. Until then, I will complete this task, place the items back inside and leave it alone. Maybe tomorrow, I will replace his items with mine. It is not time now, but soon it will be, and I will know that it is right.

Hat People

I have noticed that there are basically two types of people who enjoy the out of doors. Hat wearer’s and everyone else. I am a hat wearer. When you come into my house you will see hats. Some are worn and faded, showing the wear of many miles covering my head and shading the sun. Others look as if they just came out of the box, and probably have. The signs of wear does not necessarily denote their age. Like people from certain parts of the country, some just carry their age better than others do.

You see when you are a hat wearer you are not simply someone who wears a hat, not at all. It is part of your persona. It is who you are, you are a hat wearer, and you have hats for every occasion.

I for example have a few hunting hats. There are those that are orange for safety, ball caps mostly, and they usually denote some sort of logo or name to show all your buddies that you bought something from McAllistar or Orvis. This gives the illusion that you are more than a hat wearer, but someone who makes a statement with his hat. This if the truth be told that is exactly what we hat wearer’s do. We make statements about things that are near and dear to us.

But mostly we are just a superstitious lot. We have the hat we were wearing when that big striper took your spoon and now is on your wall. That is our lucky fishing hat. Never mind that you have never caught another fish while wearing it. It will always remain your fishing hat. Covered with two cycle oil stains, tattered and worn, covered with dried scales permanently embedded into the cloth. And a smattering of sunscreen that kept the bill from fading, but never kept you from getting burned. Nevertheless, the trips you take without it somehow just aren’t the same. It does not matter how many fish you catch, you always say. “if I had my fishing hat, I might have not lost that big one.” And the day is ruined before it even starts as soon as you realize that you picked up your lawn-mowing hat instead of your fishing hat.

You see a true hat wearer has a hat for everything, each hat unique to its function. It is not just a collection of ball caps; on the contrary, hats are a function specific item. No self respecting hat wearer will have an all for one hat. Why would one wear a tidal flats hat while fishing for trout in the Rockies? What need is there for that four-foot bill with the neck cover when you are at nine thousand feet? Likewise, the hunter will not wear blaze orange in a duck blind, nor will he wear his filson in the dove field. It just isn’t done. It is a perversion to those who paved the way for all of us. Hats are meant for the out of doors, a hat wearer is always conscious of his appearance, never does a hat wearer keep his hat on while inside. (unless you just came in from hunting camp where you haven’t washed your hair in a week.)

The good thing about a hat is that you can find them everywhere and they are seldom so expensive that your wife actually asks how much it was. I have found some of my best hats at surplus stores, and some of my worst at custom shops.
I have ordered them and I have found them at gas stations. But there is one certainty about a hat. A true wearer knows the instant the hat hits his head whether or not it will become one of his tried and true, or just another in the assorted pile. You see there is no such thing as “one size fits all” there are no heads the same, I as a matter of point have a head that falls exactly between a
7 1/8 and 7 ¼ . That makes me exactly a 7 3/16. There are no hats made that are 7 3/16. No amount of adjusting will make a 7 1/8 stretch to 7 3/16. And no amount of washing will make a 7 ¼ stay on my head. So I have to try it on, and when I do, I know. It is as instant as seeing that first girl across the room when you realized they were different from boys. You just know.

My wife has bought me hats, pretty hats, hats with class and demeanor. Hats that sit my closet shelf and gather dust because they are a 7 ¼ and I need a 7 3/16, or worse yet, hats that denote their size in small, medium and or large. How can someone know if a 7 3/16 is a small or medium? Does that mean that a 7-71/8 is a small and that 7 1/4 – 7 ½ is a medium? If that is true, I would hate to see those heads that would hold a large! The few heads that are larger than 7 ½ do not need hats, they need flower pots or buckets. Heads that big never looks right with a hat on their head. It comes closer to resembling the stem on a pumpkin. You know what it is there for, but it just does not look right.


I have sections for the different categories. I like to keep my fishing hats in the storage building so that my hunting hats do not smell like pork rind and plastic worm oil. But my hunting hats are also segregated. There are the bird hunting hats, usually orange, some are ball caps, others are full brimmed. One is from my father who never hunted in it, but I wear it for the reminder that it was his. On those days I don’t care if I kill a bird, or hit a target, that is not why I wear it.
Then there are the big game hats. I have a bonafide cowboy hat purchased in Cody, WY. That is my “picture taking hat” the one I pose in when I stand on a bluff overlooking a draw or when I am sitting by the fire. I would never think of actually hunting in it. That is what my hunting hats are for, I have too many to mention, but since you asked. There is the one I killed my moose in, that one is retired until my children want to hunt. They will start in that beanie hat. It is for them. Then there is the array of Gore-Tex hats with built in earflaps. This does not include at least one in every style of camouflage available. In every style, and at a definite 7 3/16!


There are those already mentioned, then I have in my room, piled onto posts of my dresser mirror. The list is long, and assorted including my leaf raking hat, lawn mowing hat, and car repair hat. Then there are the golf visors that I wear on both occasions that I play golf each year, and the play in the yard with the kids hats, the Indianapolis Colts hat that is reserved for watching the Colts on TV. My fly-fishing hats, one for using dry flies, and one for wet, and then there is the third for saltwater. It just stands to reason, that it is in our blood, like women and their shoes. Men who wear hats, have a hat for every occasion, and un-apologetically we wear them with pride, so long as it is the right hat for the right occasion.

Different Similarities

We stood around the campfire getting reacquainted after a year of not seeing one another. Bill stood there in his faded wranglers, black suspenders, and tee shirt with a pocket on the left front containing a pack of camels, with his weight shifted onto one foot more than the other, you could see in his eyes he was deep in thought. Cigarette smoke circled his bald head like some pungent halo captured in the calm night air, wearing a beard kept so close to his face it was difficult at first to determine if it was intended to be there or not. Leaning in, rubbing his hands towards the fire as if he needed its warmth, he started talking.

Bill is as solid as a man comes, with experiences that most of us only read about in a novel, Bill has lived. As he talks, his deep voice gently fills the cool desert air with another story from his jaunts through life. Many of his stories revolve around a past hunting trip in Alaska. The place Bill has called home for the past 35 years. I guess that is where Bill belongs, when I think about Alaska, and the experiences there, I think of Bill; hard, yet beautiful, complex yet dynamic. He is breathtaking, yet refreshing, rugged yet polished, crude yet gentle. They say that once you go to Alaska, you never really leave it behind; it becomes a part of you. That is how it is with Bill, once you get to know this man, you never leave him behind, he is always a part of you. And I am better because of it.

As we stood around that fire in the middle of the Chihuahua desert of South Texas, with the reflection of the flames flickering across our faces, we reminisced about our experiences together, We remembered the day a little over a year earlier when Bill led me to my first Alaskan Moose in the Gakona river drainage just south of Paxon Alaska. We told our stories and shared laughs, swapped lies about other hunts long gone, and dreamed of others to come. We talked for hours about our individual triumphs and heartaches, about lost opportunities, and proud achievements, about lost loves and future possibilities. Wherever the conversation led, we were completely comfortable expressing what we felt, sharing our true feelings, and knowing without question that even when we disagreed there was a mutual respect there, but more importantly, there was a mutual love for one another.

As the night grew and the fire faded we made our way to our tent to get ready for another day, another day spent doing what we love to do, and doing it with people we love being with.

As we entered the tent, the snoring of Walter was easily recognizable, soft at first, then gaining volume as his lungs search for room to place the needed oxygen. Walter goes to bed early, as if more hours in the bag correlate to better opportunities in the field. But that is Walter, he does things his own way.

Walter, at first glance, resembles a French trapper from one of Louis L’Amour’s novels. With his white hair, and strong features, wearing a dark stocking cap, and blue plaid Filson jacket, all that is needed is a trusty Mule, an iron skillet, and a flintlock and Walter is a splitting image. One thing is for sure; Walter is certainly someone that you notice in a crowd. He demands that you do, with his Northwestern accent that echo’s a steady stream of one liners, you know Walter is around when you see people laughing or eating.

Because Walter is a gifted man when he gets in front of a stove, whether it is in the desert of Texas cooking Steaks, or the bush of Alaska where he turns Spam into a delicacy, and wild blueberries into food that transforms otherwise sane men into conniving packrats. With Willie Nelson as his back up, he starts cooking and telling stories. Some argue which is better, the stories as he cooks, or the cooking as he tells stories. Whichever side you take, there is one certainty, you are sure to be well fed and entertained.

A couple of days before Walter and I tired of chasing Mule Deer in the 100+ degree heat and headed for a bluff overlooking a dry creek to see if and pigs would emerge at dusk. As we sat there, the beauty of the place evoked us into a conversation of places we had been and things we had seen. “Remember last year when . . .” I started, and we instantly were drawn to the memories we created in the Gakona river valley the previous year.

As Walter and I sat on that bluff waiting on pigs, I learned a lot about this man, and myself. We sat there separated by over twenty years, yet in complete harmony. You see Walter is one of those men that get under your skin, not like a bur under a saddle, no, Walter is more like an age spot. To some it is a sign of age and wear, but to others, it is a mark of beauty, and wisdom. Walter is a mark of beauty and wisdom. He is a light of hope to many whom otherwise don’t have any. But just like age spots are not appreciated for what they are, neither is Walter. At least he doesn’t seem to think so. But we all know better, He is easy to love, but reluctant to let you love him. He is a man searching for faith, but scarred by years of being let down by people who say one thing, and do something else entirely. Regardless of how Walter may appear, he has touched a place in my heart, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of him and how he is and dream of when we will again sit around a fire and marvel at the church sculpted with divine hands.

Many people have asked how we became friends. How did we hook up when we seem so different in so many ways? My answer is simple. . . we love each other for who we are. There are no requirements, no excuses, just a certainty of respect between three men who have different similarities.