The Timberline Letter

Produced by Ed Chinn, Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy

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4d ago

Beyond Charlton Heston's Beard

Written and Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy When my husband, David, was a pilot with the US Air Force, we had the privilege of moving to various airbases around the world. Back in 2016, we prepared for our move to an 800-square-foot apartment in South Korea. Naturally, we began whittling our belongings down to the necessities. During that time of downsizing at our Arizona home, my mom came for a visit. Among her other insights, she saw that a collapsible mini crib for our baby would fit better in our tiny space than the modern monstrosities that filled most American nurseries. I agreed. She was also confident that we would easily find one at a garage sale. On that point, I disagreed—but I resisted the urge to throw out the statistical unlikelihood of that happening. However, I was happy to have quality time with my mom, so we hit a few sales early on a Saturday morning. As we drove, she declared again that we were going to find a mini crib. My doubts began to suffocate under the weight of her faith. It was not a new feeling. My mother is a Miracle. That’s her maiden name. And Deana Lea Miracle Chinn carries that heritage with a confidence that doesn’t leave much room for doubt. So, I decided to practice a little faith rather than teach Mom (and my Creator) about improbabilities. At the first sale, we found it--a beautiful mini-crib. Just sitting there. A delicate hitchhiker on the side of a dusty highway, it called out to me. It reminded me that even faith as small as a mustard seed can shift statistics and probabilities. Mom was unfazed, as if this were perfectly normal. That’s when I noticed something I had seen before; there was something very ordinary about the whole thing. Miracles can be like that. Living through one seldom feels like “The Ten Commandments,” with waters rushing up into the sky as Charlton Heston’s beard whips fiercely in the wind. Sometimes they just quietly roll across our day. Maybe it should be commonplace to live with miracles, and living a life without them (or without acknowledging them) is what’s unusual. Even bizarre, hollow, icy. My friends and I were once called to pray for a Mongolian baby that had blue spots all over his body. As we prayed for his healing, he kept screaming. And then, he just … stopped. He had peace, joy, and perfect pink cheeks like all babies should. We thanked God and went home. It felt so normal that I wondered, were there ever any spots, or was that my imagination? I didn’t hear a rushing wind or the voice of God. That was that. Simple. Undramatic. Webster’s Dictionary defines supernatural as being “beyond or exceeding the powers or laws of nature.”[1] But maybe “supernatural” and “natural” are worthless adjectives. Who are we to pronounce anything “miraculous,” “commonplace,” “raw,” “natural,” or “supernatural?” The smallest systems, even invisible ones, are full of complexity. Every atom, molecule, sunrise, and solar system reflects its Creator. As living wonders, they travel paths that require a miraculous touch. may not need to be designated as official “miracles.” What do we mean when we speak about “concrete reality?” Concrete is a hardened mix of water, sand, cement, and gravel. Reality is an ever-shifting, pulsing dynamic of heartbeats, oxygen, blood, smiles, laughter, birdsong, tomatoes on the vine, and deep-sea illumination. We live in an astonishing world. Perhaps we should expect more miracles. It would be only natural. [1] Webster, Noah. “Definition.” An American Dictionary of the English Language, S. Converse, 1828. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
Jul 3

The Narrow Door

Written by: Ed Chinn Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy In the early fifties, my parents and a few other young couples came together to form a new Pentecostal church in Pratt, Kansas. They bought an old one-room school building and moved it onto a corner lot in Pratt. Then Dad led the way through the design, renovation, excavation, and construction phases. When finished, we had suitable space for meetings, Sunday School, and a basement-level home for a pastor and family. My parents loved joining with others to help bring that church to reality. They poured themselves out for a dream, a call. And they did it with joy for a quarter century. The End of the Road But that golden season of church life came to a stop in the late 70s. I saw it when our family drove from our Texas home up to Pratt to spend a weekend with my parents. At some point during that weekend, Dad and I parked in front of that little church building and talked of the old days. Then Dad opened his pickup door, “Okay, now I want to show you something.” I followed him up the front steps. Dad pulled a tape measure from his overalls pocket and stretched it across the door. As he gazed at the tape, he kept shaking his head. “What’s wrong, Dad?” “A casket won’t fit through this door.” The words delivered a gut punch to the old way I had seen my dad. He was now a man facing retirement and regrets, feeling the sand suck away from his feet as the tide went out. My heart broke to think of him driving to the mortuary, asking to see caskets, and measuring them as he slowly realized none would fit through the church’s narrow door. I saw how disappointment entered his heart space. No sonic boom, just a slow-motion disintegration of a dream. This was serious. He and Mom had given so much. That place that had fostered the lives of farmers, ranchers, young families, the elderly, and other community members could not host a final celebration of those lives. The finish line had to be moved somewhere else. What did it all mean now? I watched as Dad asked one of life’s hardest questions. Dis-appointed Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language (1828) breaks “disappoint” down to “dis-appoint.” [1] A better job or home may have been “appointed,” but when it collided with facts, it was “dis-appointed.” Evicted, rejected, defeated. Disappointment doesn’t mean we calculated selfishly or foolishly. Sometimes it just reminds us that we are not the authors of life. We do our best, but our strength is limited; our vision is partial. In our incompleteness, we make choices, announce plans, and fill our calendars. Then life erases those “dates with destiny.” But perhaps what we lost wasn’t real life, but our small views of it. We’ve all heard—even from our own lips—that embarrassing, sometimes tragic phrase, “But I thought...” Disappointment can come to us as a gift, toppling small, unworthy, or lethal dreams. For example, it seems my biggest disappointments have involved damaged or dead relationships. But I can also see that if some of them had come to the result I preferred, I would not have met my Joanne ... or our kids or grandkids. My parents eventually came to the same place. After walking through the narrow places of preferences, severances, and measuring doors, they walked into a larger faith, wider vision, and unexpected grace notes. Life has a way of taking us beyond suffocating constrictions into the panorama of a new landscape. [1] Noah Webster, American Dictionary of the English Language (Foundation for American Christian Education, San Francisco, CA, 1828) The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 28

California Dreamin'

In 1957 my dad lost his job on the Rock Island Railroad. So did half a million other rail workers across the US. Since everyone expected a call-back of rail employees within a year, Dad wrote and phoned old friends, including other World War 2 vets, to ask if they knew of any temporary jobs. One of Dad’s ship buddies invited Dad to move to the Monterey Bay area of California, where he was building homes. Work was steady; his company was hiring. So, we moved from Kansas to California. An apartment overlooking the beach in Seacliff became our new home. For impressionable boys—I was ten and Vernon was seven (Carl had not been born yet)—Kansas was a suffocating 19th century monotone of dirt roads, grain elevators, barbed wire fences, sweltering summer heat, and blizzards in winter. California was California, a stunning technicolor vision of life’s best. Breathtaking beaches, the vast blue Pacific, redwood and eucalyptus trees, and the lush beauty of flowers splashing down the banks of freeways and across residential areas. Santa Cruz, Watsonville, Monterey, Rio del Mar, Aptos, and La Selva Beach marked the boundaries of our gorgeous habitation. Best of all, for the first time we had Dad really with us. In Kansas, when the Rock Island called, he vanished from our lives. But in California, he was home every evening and weekend. We liked this stranger; he took us places and played ball with Vernon and me in our own Field of Dreams. When Dad and Mom began talking about the possibility of staying in California, Vernon and I jumped like basketballs dropped from a windmill. We even looked at a home for sale, a beautiful, large, bright white home on a golf fairway in Rio del Mar. Just $14,000. Dad, Mom, please; we can be Californians! In the end, when the railroad called us all back to Kansas, we obeyed. The dream died. It was as it should be; we were not Californians; we were Kansas kids. California had just been a sweet dream. But that California adventure became part of my wiring. The wild contrast between Kansas and the expanse of California beauty—The Golden Gate Bridge, Pebble Beach, Sequoia National Park—became a magical metaphor of the possibilities that can roll out of any moment, situation, or relationship. Tomorrow can crash into now; the kingdom comes, health and wealth beautify people everyday, Heaven conquers hell. The new can pass through any portal—anytime, anywhere, anyone. No matter how dark circumstances may be, we can always look up. Despite the claims of negative voices, a new world may float down into your life. Right now. Walk in expectancy. As railroad crossings remind us, Stop. Look. Listen. Everywhere, every moment. Our California experience also became a fountainhead of The Timberline Letter. Because life’s soundtrack can swell from a lone piccolo to a full orchestra, we invite everyone to expect change. Look beyond the present, the parochial, and the parched. What do you have to lose? Do you think you will lie on your deathbed, wishing you had worked longer hours, obeyed more rules, conformed to more traditions, or tried to seize more control? Einstein asked one of the great questions: “Is the universe a friendly place?” You have the power to live the answer. Deeply, faithfully, eternally. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 27

California Dreamin'

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May 21

What Goes Around Comes Around

Written and Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy Our family cautiously approached the battle-scarred property. Giant oaks leaned precariously close to the house. The forest of longleaf pines had been ripped apart and scattered like a box of toothpicks. But the awe I felt for Mother Nature paled in comparison to the fear I had for Ron, the owner of this house. I knew the towering Vietnam veteran would never hurt me, but I also knew he could go scorched earth toward anyone he thought might be a looter. And he didn’t know who we might be; he had not seen me since I was a child. We rapped on the screen door. Ron doesn’t hide behind an iron gate—he is the iron gate. The door opened to two of my favorite people on the planet. Not my aunt and uncle, technically, but so closely tied through blood and belief that our families had bonded years ago. The last time they saw me, I was a kid. Now I came bearing a husband, four kids, chainsaws and loppers. Hurricane Helene had dealt a violent blow to south Georgia. Our task was not an easy one. Cutting down trees and building up burn piles were the least of my concerns. What concerned me was the knowledge that Ron, at 78, would not stop working unless my husband David did. How were we going to clear timber and brush without Ron working harder than his health could tolerate? Less than two weeks prior, Jeannette had gone through knee replacement surgery, but she still woke early, determined to cook breakfast. It was hard to gift them with a full work crew. On Sunday morning, they insisted on taking us out for a meal. Not a minor cost for a family of six. I was uncomfortable, but I feared declining their generosity more than I feared straining their fixed income. Back at the house that night, all the kids slept with bellies full of banana pudding and the bounty from the all-you-can-eat buffet. Us four adults sat around the kitchen table, silently negotiating how much giving and kindness we could live with. We wanted to complete another day of work; David couldn’t stand to return home with so much undone. I also knew Ron and Jeannette didn’t want to accept more help. So, I tapped the table and declared, “Look; we are all uncomfortable. We didn’t want you paying for our meal, and you didn’t want us working on your yard. So, I think we all just need to be okay with being uncomfortable.” A group chuckle revealed surrender by both sides. The next day, after working for several hours, we began loading our van. Ron and Jeannette gathered our kids and thanked each by name. The tears in Ron’s eyes added to his heroic stature. As we drove home, I told the kids the story of how, when I was an infant and my family of seven had no money for food, Ron and Jeannette filled our refrigerator and counters while we were away from our house. What goes around comes around. A life lived around our loved ones has a way of repeating itself. Within that framework, reciprocity is not a duty, but a natural result of loving relationships. As the Bible explains that cycle of blessing, “... give according to what you have, not what you don’t have. Of course, I don’t mean your giving should make life easy for others and hard for yourselves. I only mean that there should be some equality. Right now you have plenty and can help those who are in need. Later, they will have plenty and can share with you when you need it. In this way, things will be equal.” – 2 Corinthians 8:12-14 (NLT). The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 20

What Goes Around, Comes Around

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May 14

Messages in Bottles

Why would anyone write a note on paper, seal it in a bottle, and drop it into the ocean? Is it a romantic Hail Mary? A plea for rescue? A gesture of grief? Human ashes have been found in bottles washed up on distant shores. According to Guinness World Records, the oldest known message in a bottle drifted across the seas over 131 years before someone finally opened it.[1] In one way or another, they are all messages from isolated souls cast toward the vastness of existence—a whisper, a groan, a cry of triumph from one small voice in the cosmos. A recent article in The New Yorker explored the enduring fascination of messages in a bottle: A pen pal writes to someone. The sender of a message in a bottle writes to anyone. The wish, sometimes granted, is that the trajectory of the note is as ineluctable as the tides that carry it; that sucked into currents and pounded by the surf and tossed onto rocks and scorched by the sun, the message ends up exactly where it ought to be.[2] Most of us only encounter messages in bottles through popular culture—Nicholas Sparks’s novel (and movie), Message in a Bottle, or songs like Message in a Bottle or Time in a Bottle. But why do they linger in the imagination? Consider all the forces required to deliver one: currents, tides, buoyancy, storms, rocks, chance, timing, and the sharp eyes of beachcombers. Maybe that’s part of the enchantment. A message in a bottle feels both accidental and guided at the same time. So, why does all this matter? The Theater of God’s Glory For centuries, theologians, poets, and philosophers have wondered if human beings live inside a reality that is larger and more layered than we normally think. John Calvin called creation “the theater of God’s glory.” Many others see creation as a kind of language, something not merely existing, but listening and speaking. Perhaps that is why messages in bottles move us so deeply. They hint that unseen currents may shape more of life than we realize. So, why do so many miss that? I once heard Charles Simpson say, “There is seeing, and there is seeing.” What does that mean? Over time, Western cultures have increasingly viewed human beings as mere physical creatures moving through a material world. Yes, that perspective has brought some gains in science and technology. But it also flattened mystery, wonder, and largeness of spirit. Are We All Messages in a Bottle? Maybe we are more multidimensional than we appear. Do consciousness, memory, love, longing, imagination, intuition, hope spill beyond the physical edges of the self? Like a murmuration of starlings shifting shape across the evening sky, perhaps human beings are more fluid, connected, and mysterious than we know. Could that be why the image of a bottle bobbing in the sea feels so strangely personal and enchanted? Maybe every life is, in some sense, a message in a bottle. The book of Exodus shows the infant Moses being placed by his mother into a handmade basket and released to the river. From that moment forward, she controlled nothing—not the current, not the timing, not the destination. She simply entrusted her son to One larger than herself. Perhaps we all do something similar. We release our words, our work, our love, our wounds, our small acts of kindness into a future we cannot control. And somehow, some of them arrive where they were meant to go. Maybe we each carry seeds of eternal purposes, destined for people and regions far beyond ourselves. If so, maybe we should all walk more carefully, selflessly, and boldly. [1] https://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/oldest-message-in-a-bottle [2] Lauren Collins, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” The New Yorker, May 4, 2026. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/05/04/signed-sealed-delivered#rid=570a63de-51fb-41a2-b9cc-66771768506d&q=lauren+collins The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 7

The Accidental Poet

Written By: Darrell A. Harris Narrated By: Kara Lea Kennedy In my earliest days as a music industry executive, our contracts were four-finger, hunt-&-peck documents, hammered out on a primitive, portable typewriter. But that manual typewriter gave me a mystical quickening . . . Feeling the velocity of the keys as they traveled from machine to paper; the uneven rhythm of their sound was somehow deeply satisfying. I have also owned fine fountain pens—like Mont Blanc and Lamy—that carried their own quiet pleasure in the way ink flowed from the pen onto the paper. It confirmed that I was actually creating something. Come to think of it, that little love affair between heart and paper probably started in 1st grade with my red Big Chief writing tablet and my No.1 pencil. In my self-absorbed little boy reverie, I would finish some letters with a kind of snail-like, curlicue filigree. My 1st grade teacher, unable to dissuade me from my embellishments, enlisted the help of my mom to get me “in line.” She must have succeeded because that’s all I remember of that moment. Today’s keypads do not deliver the same pleasures of the soft lead of a beginner’s pencil, the flow of a fountain pen, or the staccato mechanics of a typewriter. Perhaps it’s just as well that for many years I was more drawn to music and cinema than to writing. But somewhere along the rise of the keypad, I stumbled into poetry. It all started one day when, at fifty, I revisited a jazz composition I first heard at ten and had not heard since: Blue Rondo à la Turk by The Dave Brubeck Quartet. After forty years, I was transfixed all over again—captured by the prestissimo propulsion of the piano, the spritely movement and lilting legato mews of the saxophone, the pizzicato bass, the splish-splash of the cymbals, the peculiarly phrased, riveting pulse of the 9/8 time signature. As I began it drink it all in, I had to write. I was compelled, called by the music, to describe both the piece itself and the visceral response it stirred in me. Something like lightning struck. I could feel the impact of poets I had read over the years—Milton, Vachel Lindsay. James Weldon Johnson. Gabriela Mistral. Alan Ginsberg. I felt their love of language pulsing through my veins. And my humble keypad became a kind of accomplice. It gave me the ability to cut and paste, to rearrange phrases with precision, to work with words the way a sculptor works with stone. Blue Rondo à la Turk, and the poets who had formed me, begat my own Blue Rondo . . . though as a Texas kid, mine was probably closer to Blue Rondo à la Big Gulp. I often think of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, who wrote, “Some history-making is intentional; much of it is accidental,” and Woody Allen, who said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up.” So I keep showing up, following my nose in pursuit of my Creator’s beat. Like jazz, I adapt as I go, moving through the swirl and improvisation of constant change. The universe still hums with possibility. And every so often, if I’m paying attention, another small happy accident appears—like a phrase of music I didn’t know I was waiting to hear. A husband, a father to two and grandfather of six, Darrell A. Harris enjoyed twenty-five years in the music business and nearly another twenty-five in chaplaincy ministry. He is now retired and writes poetry, essays on various subjects and the occasional song lyric. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Think Clearer, See Further, Hear Deeper. timberlineletter.substack.com

Creator

Produced by Ed Chinn, Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy
Years Active

2025 - 2026
Episodes

82
Rating

Clean
Copyright

© Cool River Pub, Inc.
Show Website

The Timberline Letter